The Fall of Winter (Rewrite)
by Reign of Rayne
Summary: Over a year after Captain America, Falcon, and Black Widow took down the HYDRA plot to take over SHIELD's helicarriers, Steve is still looking for his long-lost friend, Bucky Barnes. When circumstances force them together, both sides are not sure if a true reunion will lead to happiness or disaster.
1. Chapter 1

_Okay, here's the rewrite! While I'm not actively spoiling anything from_ Civil War _, I would be wary of references that could be spoilers for anyone who hasn't watched the movie yet._

 _Enjoy!_

* * *

 **Prologue**

Steve's mind was a mess of pain. His vision was swimming and his muscles trembled with every movement he made. The holes in his leg and stomach leaked blood continuously. The soldier part of him—the part that he both loved and hated—told Steve to leave. To abandon ship and live to fight another day.

He told that part to shut up and continued to lift the massive piece of wreckage pinning his childhood friend to the floor. Around him, shards of metal and sparks rained down from the ceiling of the falling helicarrier. One beam landed worryingly close and Steve strained harder, pouring everything he could into lifting.

Bucky finally pulled himself out from under the beam and Steve let it drop, unable to move for a second as his muscles recovered. He still had the mind to look to Bucky, who was staring at him with that damnably cold gaze.

 _C'mon, Buck._

"You know me," Steve managed, willing Bucky to understand.

Bucky was going to attack and Steve stood to take it, but Bucky's cry of, "No I don't!" hurt far worse than the punch that sent Steve sprawling. He got up anyway. He had to keep getting up, no matter how many times Bucky knocked him down. Bucky was his friend—Steve couldn't stop. Not here, not when Bucky was right in front of him and in so much pain—

"Bucky," Steve said, "you've known me your whole life."

Another hit. Another fall.

 _Get up_.

"Your name…is James Buchanan Barnes."

"Shut up!"

 _Get up._

"I'm not gonna fight you." Helmet and shield, gone. But Bucky was still looking at him with eyes so lost and angry that Steve wondered where the hell he'd gone wrong—"You're my friend."

Tackled. On his back—

"You're my mission."

 _Get up._

A punch. Another.

 _I can't._

"You. Are. My. Mission!"

More. His head was ringing. But—he was hesitating. Bucky was hesitating.

His brain didn't seem to be connecting properly with his mouth, but he knew that Bucky wouldn't forgive him for saying nothing at all. _If I'm your mission..._

"Then finish it, 'cause…I'm with you to the end of the line."

 _I know you're in there Bucky._

No more punches. A jolt knocked out the floor and then there was nothing but gravity and then something cold that swallowed Steve whole, and he thought, _maybe it's best this way._

Then he thought nothing at all.

* * *

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	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 1**

 **[Approximately One Year Later]**

"See anything?"

Steve ducked under the latest tree, waiting for Sam to respond through the comms. Around him, the sounds of the forest in wintertime kept him company as his boots trudged through the recently fallen snow.

 _"Nothing, Cap."_ Steve held back a small surge of disappointment; after months of searching, one more letdown wasn't as big a deal as it had been. _"Are you sure he was spotted here? This is the third lead in as many weeks, and northern Wisconsin seems a bit out of the way."_

"I know, Sam," Steve replied. "We're running out of places to look. But the man in the convenience store down the way did report a man with a metal hand stopping in to buy a pair of gloves. It's more than the last one."

 _"Yeah, yeah. I'm glad you want to find the guy, and I don't regret helping. It's just a little cold for me up here."_

Steve's lips quirked into a small smile. "I told you to dress warm for this one."

 _"I left my heavy stuff back home! I thought you meant forties, man. Not this fifteen-degree crap."_

"I can make some hot chocolate."

 _"I'll take you up on that offer. Race you back to the cabin?"_

"Sure, if you can keep up."

 _"Oh, so it's like that? Well then."_ Something dark streaked over Steve's head. _"On your left."_

Steve didn't waste a moment; he took off at a full sprint, ducking under tree branches and vaulting over roots and small underbrush. Knowing Sam, he wasn't going full speed, so Steve knew that he could catch up to him if the terrain favored him.

The cold winter air burned Steve's lungs with every inhale, but it felt refreshing. It had been some time since his last real sprint, so he enjoyed it. By the time he reached the cabin, he was panting, his breath steaming. Sam was waiting for him inside the cabin, his revamped wings already stored away.

"So you were going full speed," Steve said as he removed his boots and placed them next to Sam's.

"Gotta get the small victories. By the way, the renting company called. Said they'll be here tomorrow."

"Got it. You want dinner?"

"Please."

Steve went into the kitchen and set about preparing a quick meal, using the food Sam had gotten from the nearby town the previous day. He heard Sam switch on the TV and begin flipping through the channels. By the time Steve set Sam's meal in front of him, the other man had settled on local news.

"Some guy ran over a deer this morning," Sam reported as he took the first bite of his meal. "Also, when did you learn how to cook? You've been making great food since the start of this thing."

"Only asking now?"

"Didn't want to be rude."

Steve took a few bites. "You pick up a lotta things when you've got little else to do with your time."

The conversation dwindled to sporadic comments on the news and Steve let it stay that way. He was tired, both from running earlier and from the general strain of finding absolutely nothing.

 _It's been twelve months._

Steve went for the next bite only to find that there was nothing left on his plate.

 _Where are you, Buck?_

A red light beeped from Sam's pack—strategically placed for easy reach in case of an emergency—and immediately both Sam and Steve were standing.

"Someone coming?" Steve asked, reaching for his shield.

The light blinked off.

"Someone's gone," Sam replied, walking over to his wings. "Should we look?"

Steve frowned, glancing out the windows. "It's dark, and whoever it was didn't stay long. Could've been an animal. We can investigate in the morning. In the meantime, keep…"

"Redwing," Sam supplied. "His name's Redwing."

Steve took the name for the small drone in stride. "Keep Redwing active. Don't want any unwelcome visitors."

"Got it, Steve."

Just to be sure, Steve did a quick check of the interior of the whole cabin. It didn't take long—the building wasn't all that big, despite how much the owner had charged to let Steve and Sam rent it for a week—and by the end Steve felt a little silly. It had probably been a deer or some other large animal. Then again, it might not have been.

Steve didn't get much sleep that night.

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	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 2**

The next morning Steve woke up to an empty cabin. He saw the note pinned on the fridge, read that Sam had gone out on a quick patrol. Steve's comm unit was on the table and he grabbed it, plugging it into his ear while he prepared a quick bowl of cereal and fruit.

"Sam?"

 _"I'm here. Skies are a little cloudy, but nothing too bad. Might snow later, though."_

"Noted. Notice anything on your way out?"

 _"Nothing. Probably a deer; they're large enough to register on Redwing's current sensor settings. Wind last night blew away any possible tracks."_

"Right."

 _"Sleep well?"_

 _No._

"Yeah, well enough. You?"

 _"Same thing. I'll be back in about five minutes. We can start packing up then."_

"Roger that."

Steve finished his breakfast and rinsed off the dishes, putting them in the dishwasher alongside the rest from the last few days. Deciding that the machine was full enough, Steve started the run cycle and then went over to his room.

It had precious little in it. He packed up his backpack with routine efficiency, not really thinking about anything until boots on the porch had him opening his mouth to ask Falcon where he'd placed the satellite phone.

Until the knock came. Instantly on guard, Steve grabbed his shield and made his way to the door, avoiding the creaky parts of the wood paneling. Checking the window as subtly as he could manage, Steve caught sight of an orange vest.

He sighed and relaxed, setting the shield next to the door before pulling it open. "Tom," he greeted with a smile.

The source of the tip didn't return Steve's smile. He was breathing hard, and Steve could see his car parked a ways down the drive.

"Is something the matter?"

 _"Steve? You need me back there faster?"_

"The man you're looking for," Tom said. "I saw him again. In—in a blue car, driving away. Got here fast as I could."

Steve blinked. And then he clapped Tom on the shoulder. "Thank you. I really appreciate this."

Tom nodded and turned away. Steve shut the door, grabbed his shield, and prepared to leave.

 _"Steve?"_

"He's been spotted leaving town. Blue car. Think you can catch up?"

 _"Who do you think I am? I'll let you know when I've got eyes on him."_

"Got it. Meet you soon as I can."

In less than a minute, Steve was behind the wheel of his car and cruising down the street, his gear and the rest of Sam's in the back. He passed Tom quickly, giving the man a small wave as he went.

 _"I see him."_

"Where?"

 _"Three miles out. Driving quickly, not enough to get pulled over. Guy's already passed a cop."_

"Can you stop him?"

 _"Yeah."_

Steve tapped his fingers on the wheel but kept his impatience in check as much as he could. Sam could handle whatever happened, and Steve would be there soon.

 _"Car stopped. Driver ain't happy."_

"Did he see you?"

 _"Yeah. He's—"_ Sam paused for a moment. _"Sorry. He's got a gun and he's a good shot. Nearly got Redwing."_

"I'm almost there."

Two minutes passed by far too slowly, and Steve barely remembered to slow down when he saw the cop hiding up ahead. After passing the officer, Steve promptly sped up again.

He saw Sam before he saw Bucky; he was flying in the air in athletic loops and dives, occasionally sweeping low and using the semi-automatics strategically fixed to his wings.

"Sam," Steve said, grabbing his shield from the back. "Where is he?"

 _"Behind his car. Using it as a shield."_

Steve pursed his lips and drove as close as he dared before stepping out of the car.

Sam landed beside him, wings flexed and ready to be used as shields if necessary. "Got a plan? My bullets and his don't seem to be communicating very well."

"Something like that," Steve replied offhandedly, his focus fixed on the man standing less than a few car lengths away. One of Sam's shots must have clipped his arm; a small piece of the coat sleeve had been torn away, revealing the gleaming metal beneath.

 _Bucky._

His hair was longer than Steve remembered—cleaner, too, if that counted for anything—and Steve automatically found himself comparing this Bucky to the one that had saved him from fights—

"Why are you here?" Bucky was wary. The rifle he held was aimed squarely at Steve, its barrel unwavering.

"I had to follow you, Buck."

"You didn't."

"I did. We're friends."

Bucky stared at him. Steve stared back.

 _"You're my friend."_

 _"You're my mission."_

"Why?"

"Because—"

 _You're one of the last ones, Bucky. Everyone else—almost everyone else is gone._

Bucky was staring. Expectant, almost.

"Because we grew up together," Steve said, letting his arms drop. His shield hung by his side, its threat minimized. Bucky narrowed his eyes and slowly lowered the rifle after checking that Sam wasn't about to try anything. "All those times I got my ass kicked in those fights and you helped, those piers we used to visit, Miss Sandra's homemade chocolate—all of it. I can't give you a definite answer, Buck."

For a minute, Bucky said nothing. Steve wondered what was going through his head but he knew that this wasn't his silence to break.

"Your mother's name was Sarah."

Steve bit his tongue and nodded. "Yeah. She loved you. Thought you were the best thing for me."

Bucky looked down at the rifle. "Funny how that worked out."

"You two hearing that?" Sam abruptly asked, his eyes scanning the horizon. "Sounds like sirens."

All three looked back the way they'd come and saw two police cars headed their way, their flashing lights reflecting on the trees and snow even when they dipped below the hills. Sam groaned.

"You've _got_ to be kidding me. They must've heard the gunshots."

Steve immediately looked to Bucky, who seemed entirely ready to bolt. "Wait!"

Bucky smirked. Actually smirked. Steve stared, the familiar expression tugging at something jagged buried in his chest.

"You're better off if I'm not around when they arrive," he said. Neither Sam nor Steve could move quickly enough to stop him from driving away. In a moment, Bucky had turned onto a side road and disappeared from sight. Sam looked to Steve.

"Sorry, man."

"It's fine," Steve said. He shook his head, forcing himself into the present. "We can deal with the police and then find a hotel nearby. Sound good?"

"Fine by me," Sam replied, already shrugging off his wings. At Steve's raised eyebrow, he shrugged. "Don't want them thinking I stole these again."

"Again? When was the first time?"

"You weren't there. That was a fun conversation, trust me." He put the gear in the car and then rubbed his hands together, blowing on them to try to warm them up. "Can't the guy pick a warmer place to lay low?"

"We might have missed him in warmer places," Steve pointed out. Sam shot him a look and then shook his head.

"We could've missed him this time, too."

* * *

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	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 3**

Sam and Steve woke the next morning to a knock on their hotel door. Exchanging a look, they grabbed a pistol and a shield respectively.

"Housekeeping!"

Steve took the lead, peering through the small lens in the door to see who was on the other side. "Natasha?"

He exchanged a confused look with Sam and then pulled the door open. Natasha stood on the other side, a practiced smile on her face.

"About time. Long time no see, boys."

"Nat," Steve greeted. Sam just nodded.

"Why are you here?" Sam asked. "Thought you were down doing your thing in…what was it, France?"

Natasha shrugged. "I figured I'd stop by."

"Did you get sent to check up on us?"

"Maybe. Everyone wants to know where the Winter Soldier is, and you're the best bet for finding him. Have you, by the way?"

"We ran into him near here," Steve admitted. "But he left before we could really do anything."

"Unfortunate. Know where he went?"

"No idea."

"He's good at disappearing," Sam put in. "Took us over a year to get this far, and he's already gone."

"Hm." Natasha crossed her arms, taking a minute to think. "Do you mind if I join you for a few days? I have some time to kill between this and my next assignment."

Neither Sam nor Steve voiced any objections, and so Natasha joined their group.

* * *

Bucky tipped his head back and let out a long sigh. His head was a mess, and part of him felt that was fine while the other part railed against that first part. It was enough to give him a headache.

 _"Why are you here?"_

 _"I had to follow you, Buck."_

 _"You didn't."_

 _"I did. We're friends."_

 _I don't know_ what _we are right now._

It hurt, of course, to realize that. To realize that, even though he called himself Bucky, he wasn't that man anymore. Not with the gleaming metal making up one arm and the memories of countless assassinations—assassinations he was trying to both remember and forget—running through his head. And even though he wanted to talk to Steve more, to trust him, he couldn't. Not when the world was still out looking for him.

 _Eliminate the target._

Or, ignore the voice in his head. He liked the second option.

(He was making his own damned choices now.)

He worked his jaw as he stared out the car's windshield. He was parked on the side of a long, backcountry road that no one else had driven on for a while if the snow obscuring the lines was anything to go by. It was beautiful scenery, but Bucky couldn't properly appreciate it.

He wondered if Steve would ever trust him again while also wondering why he was thinking about that.

 _No._

But at the same time, _yes_. Because Steve was—he was loyal. Bucky had broken memories but he remembered that well enough, remembered that even when his head was a roaring mess Steve had refused to fight back for the sake of the friendship Bucky had completely forgotten about.

And Bucky had nearly killed him.

Bucky stared at his hands and briefly entertained the idea that both were steeped in crimson.

Something moved in his peripheral vision but by the time Bucky had focused on it, whatever it was had disappeared. He started the car's engine again. Even if that had been nothing, he'd spent too long in this town.

 _The engine doesn't sound right._

Bucky's vision went white right as he unbuckled his seat belt. Heat and pain threw him through the shattered windshield and he hit the ground hard on his metal arm, using it to stabilize himself and get back to his feet as broken glass and shards of metal rained down around him.

His car was a smoking wreck. Someone had planted an explosive on it. When, Bucky didn't know, but this was dangerous; he didn't know his surroundings well and he didn't know who the attacker was.

Something glimmered from the nearby tree line and Bucky ducked, narrowly avoiding the dart that disappeared in the snow over his right shoulder.

 _Where?_

Another dart came from the opposite direction and Bucky blocked it with his metal hand, seeing the tip break apart on contact. Bucky's lips thinned. His gun had been in the car, and there was more than one attacker using what Bucky guessed were tranquilizers. He couldn't go after one without risking an attack from behind from the other.

He was stuck in the open, and he couldn't risk just running away in case there were more attackers. To make matters worse, he had no long-range weapons to use.

 _This is bad._

He blocked another dart and ducked a fourth. One caught him in the calf and he grunted, pulling it out immediately, but he wasn't fast enough to stop it from dispensing its sedative. Whatever the drug was, it was enough to hit Bucky immediately; his limbs went heavy and his vision swam. Another dart got him in the thigh and he staggered, his muscles no longer responding right.

 _Shit_.

He lifted his metal arm—the only thing he was confident he could control—and punched the road as hard as he was able. The asphalt cracked around his fist, and Bucky fell into unconsciousness as two more darts hit home.

* * *

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	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 4**

"Can you change the station?" Sam asked. "This is more talk show than music."

Steve glanced at his friend with a raised eyebrow. "Driver gets the music."

"C'mon, man."

Steve relented. "Fine."

While Sam searched for a better radio station, Steve focused on the road. Behind him, Natasha followed in her own car.

They were leaving town, partly because Bucky hadn't made any further contact and partly because the police didn't want to have to deal with any more gun-toting "hooligans" (Steve had been surprised to hear that word used) in their jurisdiction. In a last effort to stumble across Bucky's trail, Steve had turned onto the side road Bucky had used to drive away the previous day. It was a bumpy ride, and every so often Steve had to slow down lest he risk sliding off the road and into the trees.

Sam's prediction that it would snow had come true, albeit two days later. Small, intermittent flurries had been coming down for the past hour with nothing actually sticking. Even so, the sky was dark and overcast with no signs of clearing up.

Steve crested the latest of many hills and immediately slammed on the brakes, hearing a horn from behind as Natasha did the same.

Apologizing to Sam, Steve jumped out of the car and jogged over to the wreck on the side of the road. Natasha pulled up a moment later, and she and Sam quickly joined Steve.

"Looks like an explosion," Sam said, approaching the car and checking it over carefully. "No bodies, though." He stepped back and frowned. "Also, Steve, I'm getting the feeling I've seen this car before." He brushed off some of the snow that had accumulated on the frame. "It's blue."

"Bucky's," Steve said grimly.

"We've got something over here," Natasha called. She was slightly away from the car, crouched next to a hole in the road. "Looks recent, maybe within the last day or so. Not much snow in it, and the smaller pieces of rubble are still here." She looked around and frowned. "Someone must've cleared out the footprints."

Steve nodded his agreement with her assessment. "The question is, what happened here? And where's Bucky?"

No one could provide an answer.

"I'll check out the surrounding area," Natasha said after a beat. "Maybe whoever attacked left something behind."

"Something like this?" Sam asked, holding up a shiny metal object he'd picked up from the snow. "It's a dart. Tranquilizer, probably." Upon seeing Natasha and Steve's curious looks, Sam grinned, pointing to Redwing. The drone was hovering a few feet above the ground. "Metal detector."

Steve's lips quirked, and then he became serious again. "Whoever attacked knew who they were up against if they were that prepared. Sam, can you do an aerial check with Redwing?"

"Sure thing."

While Sam and Natasha continued to look around, Steve went to examine the hole in the road. From its size, Steve was tempted to say that someone had punched through the asphalt. Bucky's metal arm would certainly be able to do that, but that left the question of why he had done it.

Had there been a struggle? Had Bucky escaped or been captured? Who had taken or tried to take him? And was this hole a signal to Steve, to let him know that the driver had definitely been Bucky?

Steve blinked as a flake of snow fell into his eye.

Who would target Bucky? This wasn't SHIELD's work as far as Steve knew, and Natasha had looked just as surprised. That left -

 _"A lot of rats didn't go down with the ship."_

Nick Fury was rarely wrong. Steve got to his feet and looked for Natasha.

"Hey, Nat," he said, a frown pulling his lips down at the corners. "Are there any SHIELD bases around here?"

Natasha shifted her gaze to the sky in thought. "No bases, to my knowledge. There may have been an outpost, in the event that there were attacks through Canada." Seeing Steve's look, she raised one eyebrow. "I'm not a walking database, Steve. But I can check to make sure."

"Thank you."

It took a few minutes, but Natasha returned with the news that there was an outpost—old and decommissioned—located a few miles away, deep in the woods.

"If people did kidnap him," Natasha said, "they probably took him there."

"Let me get a coat first," Sam said.

Natasha tossed one his way. "You've gotta come prepared."

"Why do you have this?"

"Knew you'd forget."

Sam accepted the coat. "Right, probably shoulda seen that coming. Super spy-chick and whatever. Do you happen to have—"

"Nope."

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	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 5**

"Blueprint has one floor above ground and three below," Natasha said. "Bottom one is designated weapons storage, one above that is barracks, and the one above that has what looks like tech equipment."

"First floor?" Steve asked.

"Guise of a hunting cabin. It should have skylights."

"How exciting," Sam commented. "I'll use Redwing, get an idea of what we're up against. Everyone got their comms in?"

"Yeah," Steve and Natasha confirmed.

"All right. Here we go."

* * *

Bucky opened his eyes to bright lights and dull noise. His body felt heavy, and when he tried to move, metal restrains kept him locked in place. There were people around him—white lab coats, a few uniforms with guns.

 _Military?_

Bucky didn't want to have to deal with this. He'd just been leaving town. The whole point of disappearing was to avoid getting caught, to avoid having to do anything until he sorted out exactly who he was. He'd tried in Wisconsin and that clearly hadn't worked ( _Steve_ ), so he'd figured getting an apartment somewhere else—somewhere warmer, somewhere _not in America_ —would work out. But now? Now he was caught, and getting caught meant probable torture. He knew full well that SHIELD wouldn't forgive him for what he'd done.

He didn't forgive himself for what he'd done—not that he could do a damn thing about any of it. There was guilt in there somewhere, but it was buried beneath layers of sharpened steel and serrated blades.

"Ah, you're awake."

Bucky focused on the man leaning over him. He was old—older than anyone else in the room. He looked vaguely familiar, but Bucky didn't know where from.

Someone shone a bright light into Bucky's eye and he squinted.

"Pupil reflex is normal. The sedative is almost out of his system."

 _So you were the ones shooting those darts._

The scientist was speaking again and Bucky refocused on him.

"We've been looking for you for a long time. It's good to see that you're in good health, soldier."

That title set off alarm bells in Bucky's mind. SHIELD would never call him that; only one group had that habit. Bucky looked past the scientist, at the other people manning the computers and other equipment scattered about the room.

(There were no windows. Was he underground?)

He saw SHIELD insignias on the walls and machines, but no one in the room had one on their uniform. Were these people actually SHIELD, or something worse?

 _Who the hell are you?_

Bucky watched as the scientist moved over to the table next to him. He began rummaging around in the drawers, and Bucky took the chance to look around again. This wasn't a HYDRA facility, at least. Bucky saw no signs of the machines that had caused him so much agony and erased chunks of his memory at a time.

(He was relieved. They couldn't take everything from him again.)

"Now, the only problem with finding you now," the scientist continued, standing up straight, "is that we cannot be sure of what you have been doing in the time since we last saw each other, yes?"

Bucky just stared at him, recognition finally falling into place in his mind.

 _I know your face. You were part of HYDRA._

"Yes, well. The world is a cruel place and all that. Why do you think we've gone after you?"

 _I don't know._

He blinked.

 _Leave me alone._

The scientist's lips quirked. "Silent, I see. That's perfectly fine. We didn't expect you to talk much." He cleared his throat and Bucky noticed the paper he held in one hand. "Straight to business, then. Your friends are coming after you, which could prove to be a problem for us."

Bucky kept his expression clear with some effort.

 _Who? Steve?_

He wondered why even though he already knew the answer.

 _"I'm with you to the end of the line."_

Bucky tested his restraints again.

 _Where's the end, Steve?_

"We need you to take care of them."

Bucky leveled the man with a glare. That wasn't happening; Bucky was leaving. In ten seconds he could free his metal arm, and another ten after that he could be completely out of his restraints.

"желание."

Bucky froze. The scientist continued to read from the scrap of paper.

"ржaвый."

"Stop," Bucky said, flexing his hands as fire began to flow through his veins.

"Семнадцать."

"Stop it now."

"Рассвет."

Bucky grit his teeth, the motors in his arm whirring while he jerked against the metal holding him in place.

"Печь."

"Shut up. Shut up."

"Девять."

"Shut up!"

"добросердечный."

Something cold and dark began closing down on Bucky's mind and he fought against it, putting everything he could into getting out so he could shut that man _up_ —

"возвращение на родину."

Bucky roared in animal rage. His arm broke free and he ripped off the rest of the restraints—

"Один."

He reached for the scientist—

"грузовой вагон."

* * *

 **Translations:**

желание (zhelaniye) - Longing

ржaвый (rzhavyy) - Rusted

Семнадцать (Semnadtsat' ) - Seventeen

Рассвет (Rassvet) - Daybreak

Печь (Pech') - Furnace

Девять (Devyat' ) - Nine

добросердечный (dobroserdechnyy) - Benign

возвращение на родину (vozvrashcheniye na rodinu) - Homecoming

Один (Odin) - One

грузовой вагон (gruzovoy vagon) - Freightcar

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	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 6**

"No guards posted outside," Steve muttered, peering at the long cabin from behind the tree stump. He glanced at Sam. "You were right. Code names from now on. Everyone ready?"

"Waiting for the signal, Cap," Sam replied.

"Ready when you are," Natasha said.

Steve took a deep breath. "Here we go."

"Wait, someone's coming out."

Steve looked at Natasha; she had a better sightline on the base, given that Steve was pressed up against a tree.

"The W—ah, Barnes. He's got a semi-automatic in his hands and another weapon on his back. Possibly a knife."

"Did he break out?"

"Cap, he's heading right for you." Sam sounded concerned. "And Redwing is still registering movement in the lower floors."

Steve frowned. _Something definitely isn't right._ Whatever the source was, it was in that building. "Widow, Falcon, investigate the building. I'll deal with Bucky."

"Roger that, Captain."

He could see Bucky approaching now. Bucky either didn't notice or ignored Sam and Natasha as they snuck into the base. His chilling gaze was fixed solely on Steve, whose feeling that something was wrong was increasing by the second. Steve kept his shield ready as he stepped out from behind the tree and strode forward. Bucky paused upon seeing Steve.

The two faced off, Bucky in the middle of the clearing between the cabin and the trees. Steve stayed by the tree line.

"Bucky, what's going on?" Steve asked warily. "Who are the people in that building?"

Bucky offered no reply. His expression didn't change at all even when he raised his gun and aimed at Steve. Steve brought up his shield on reflex while his stomach lurched.

 _Bucky…?_

The barrel of the gun wasn't wavering. There was nothing in Bucky's eyes. Nothing at all.

"Please, Bucky," Steve said, horror and dread mixing into his voice when he realized exactly what was going to happen. "Don't make me do this again. I can't do this a second time."

A bullet rebounded off Steve's shield. Then three more, and the fight Steve never wanted to have again began.

Bucky's metal arm slammed into Steve's shield and Steve pushed him back, using the split-second advantage to hammer a punch into Bucky's stomach. Bucky retaliated with another wave of bullets that narrowly missed Steve. Steve ducked under a punch from Bucky's free hand and slammed his shield into Bucky's wrist, shocking the gun from his grasp. As it fell, Bucky drew a knife and slashed Steve across his upper arm.

Steve grit his teeth and backed up, reassessing the fight. There was nothing nearby he could use to bounce his shield off of beside the trees, and they weren't at the right angle in any case. Bucky had the strength advantage when he used his metal arm, and his hand-to-hand skills were at least at Steve's level.

 _"Engaging hostiles."_

He had to delay Bucky for as long as it took for Sam and Natasha to find out what had happened in that cabin.

"C'mon, Buck," Steve said, meeting his friend's eyes. "I can do this all day."

Bucky's eyes narrowed, and that was all the warning Steve got before they were brawling. Steve deflected two punches, blocked a third, and sidestepped a leg sweep. He retaliated with a quick series of blows, only one of which managed to break through Bucky's defense. In return Steve received another shallow cut along his forearm from Bucky's knife.

Bucky pulled out his small gun but Steve whacked it away before he could use it, following up with his shield to knock Bucky back a few paces.

 _"Captain, we've got HYDRA. Looks like they were using this facility to lay low. This might just be a wrong-place-wrong-time for us, or the other way around."_

Steve grit his teeth as he caught Bucky's fist in one hand and blocked his other punch with the shield.

"Any news on what they did to Bucky?"

 _"None. They won't talk. Widow's looking around."_

Steve shoved down his disappointment and continued his fight. His mind went into autopilot, reflex driving his muscles more than his conscious mind.

Punch, duck, block, punch. Duck, sidestep, kick. Punch. Block, push, kick, block.

Bucky's knife skills were almost hypnotic to watch. He switched between hands effortlessly, using seemingly wasteful movements to try to distract Steve's eyes from where the real attack would come from. But Steve had been fighting for a long time and he used his shield's strength and size to his advantage, successfully deflecting, blocking, or dodging nearly all of Bucky's attacks. Some got through—that was unavoidable—but they lead to only minor flesh wounds.

Bucky seemed to recognize this and, quite abruptly, he switched tactics. Tackling Steve to the ground and successfully separating Steve from his shield, Bucky immediately tried to put him in a hold. Steve grunted and jerked, feeling his shoulder come painfully close to popping out of place while his elbow tinged warningly, but it was enough to break Bucky's grip so that Steve could roll over and try to pin him in return.

They wrestled in the snow, Bucky's knife always missing Steve's vitals but coming closer every time. Finally Steve managed to drive his knee into Bucky's stomach, momentarily winding him, and he took that chance to pry the knife from Bucky's grip and throw it away.

"Stop, Bucky," Steve said between gasps for breath. "You don't have to do this."

Bucky blinked and then violently twisted, throwing Steve off. He went for one of the guns—possibly recognizing that he couldn't beat Steve easily in hand-to-hand—but Steve tackled him away from them and they rolled, Steve taking two punches to the head but retaliating by yanking Bucky's arm behind his back and shoving his knee into the small of Bucky's back. He ignored the temporary dots swimming in his vision and focused on keeping Bucky down.

He grunted in pain and tried to get away but Steve held strong. "You've gotta stop, Buck," Steve managed through gritted teeth. "This isn't you. I _know_ it isn't."

Bucky snarled something unintelligible and tried to hit Steve away with his metal arm but Steve leaned out of his reach. He kept his grip on Bucky's arm and danced the line between actually dislocating his old friend's shoulder and just causing incredible pain and minor tendon damage.

After what felt like a whole minute but was probably less than half that, Bucky managed to escape Steve's grasp by getting a knife from his boot and scoring a long, relatively deep cut on Steve's forearm. Steve drew back quickly and picked up his shield on the way.

His blood dripped bright red on the snow. Steve saw Bucky's gaze go to it, if only for a second, and something flickered in his eyes before the cold nothing slammed back into place.

 _Bucky, please. I know you're there._

But Bucky fought as though he felt no hesitation at all, and Steve found himself hard pressed to keep the fight on equal ground. It took all of his focus to defend from Bucky's attacks, and he was backed into a tree all too quickly.

Bucky opted for a punch with his metal arm. Steve ducked, hearing Bucky's hand splinter the pine's bark. The knife was already coming for Steve as Bucky recovered but Steve was faster, and he ducked and rolled out of Bucky's immediate reach and put his fists up, shield ready. He stared at Bucky, both with challenge and a desire to punch whoever did this to Bucky so hard they saw both stars and stripes.

And then Steve got an abrupt reminder of why people didn't usually try to multitask during a fight.

It happened so quickly that even Steve's serum-enhanced eyes couldn't see it coming until his hand had already moved. The knife had been going for his left side, the side that Steve had left unprotected in order to block the kick Bucky had executed on the right.

 _He knows how I fight._

Well enough to take immediate advantage of a tiny gap in Steve's defense brought on my a lack of focus, at least.

It was either a hand or his gut. Steve made the decision in an instant; the combat knife went right through Steve's palm up to the hilt, its force driven by Bucky's flesh-and-blood arm. Steve stopped the knife's momentum and gripped it as best he could with his hand shrieking _pain_ and _malfunction_. The muscles in his fingers twitched and he couldn't close his fist properly, but it was enough to momentarily stall his opponent.

They both paused. Perhaps Bucky was reevaluating the fight; Steve couldn't tell. But he looked into Bucky's eyes and willed for him to remember.

"Cap!" The shout came to Steve's ear from both the comms and reality. Natasha was running out of the base, heading straight for Steve and Bucky. She had something in her hand, something that Steve recognized—

 _Oh._

He ripped away from Bucky ( _ow, hand_ ) and Natasha threw an electrified stinger that caught Bucky right in his metal arm when he tried to deflect the mean little device. The electricity stopped him cold for a moment, the motors in his arm audibly whirring in protest at the sudden jolt.

Natasha threw a second one right as Bucky ripped off the first, and as Bucky was trying to remove that with jerky movements, she knocked him out cold.

Steve stared as Bucky collapsed into the snow. Natasha breathed out slowly, calming down. She raised an eyebrow at Steve, still visibly rattled but managing a grin. "I heard the fighting and thought you could use an assist."

Steve managed to say thanks somewhere between his worry for Bucky and appreciation of Natasha's skill.

 _"I hate to interrupt whatever moment you two are having, but I've got something."_

Steve put a hand to his ear out of sheer reflex. "What is it, Falcon?"

 _"Scrap of paper. It has—I think it's Russian—words written on it. I'm not sure what they mean, but one of these guys is staring at me in a way that makes me think this is a very important piece to the puzzle of whatever the hell went down in here."_

"I can translate it," Natasha said. Her gaze went to Bucky. "But we should probably do something about him first."

* * *

 _ **Please review.**_


	8. Chapter 8

_I said this was a rewrite. Turns out it's like a whole '_ _nother story. Awesome._

* * *

 **Chapter 7**

Bucky woke with the feeling of swimming through water too deep to truly escape from. His eyelids were heavy when he dragged them open and it took more energy than he cared to admit to kick his brain into gear.

Sleep. His body wanted more sleep.

 _Shut up. I know._

He tried to go back under, but only then did he realize that there was another person in the room. With slow, deliberate movements, Bucky turned his head to get a better look at them.

(Where was he, anyway? He didn't remember much beyond—)

"Steve, he's awake."

He knew the man who had spoken, or at least recognized him. The—the flier. The one that had shot at him and avoided getting shot himself. Bucky stared at him and the man returned the look. He was good, but Bucky could see the barest hints of hidden unease in his eyes.

(What was it? What was the last thing to happen?)

Steve walked into the room and Bucky's stomach lurched so awfully that he had to look down to recover, and he knew his face was pale.

(Something about—words. Words. Russian words. Commands.)

 _Obey_ , his fractured mind whispered.

 _Shut up_.

There were goose bumps on Bucky's flesh arm but he ignored them, his metal hand squeezing into a fist. They had restrained the limb with a complicated series of bands and metal pieces that Bucky knew he could break, but not without significant effort. And that redhead was now walking into the room, the woman with the weapons that made his muscles spasm uncontrollably. She was a bad opponent to try to escape from.

Steve. _Steve_. Bucky could recognize him from the damned boots.

 _Obey_ , his mind whispered again. _Eliminate the target. Kill the target._

The metal of his hand groaned slightly in protest of how hard he was squeezing it.

 _Shut. Up._

"Do you know who I am?"

 _Of course I do._

And the first thing those words conjured up was the museum, the one that Bucky couldn't stay in for long because tracking teams were closing in on him at that point and he had to disappear completely, but he'd seen everything there. But there was more beyond that. Sights and sounds and smells and memories that came only when Bucky didn't call them.

(What the _hell_ had happened? How did he get here? He'd been in Wisconsin purely because people rarely suspected those northern states, and then Steve had somehow found him, and then—what then?)

"Bucky?"

He lifted his head when he was sure his expression was under control and looked right at Steve.

The man flinched. _Flinched._ And Bucky realized that his expression was _too_ under control, that he'd slipped back into old habits that upset people he had no choice but to talk to—

He swallowed. He needed more time. A month. Two. Hell, twelve. Anything to let him figure out how to act human again before having to do this.

 _Unnecessary_ , his mind said. Bucky ignored it this time, since telling himself to shut up was getting him precisely nowhere.

He still hadn't answered, and Steve was staring at him. Flier and Redhead had left the room.

Steve looked pained. Like he was expecting _no_. Even though they'd met and Bucky had identified him. He remembered that. Had Steve forgotten?

 _No, no. I'm missing something. Steve wouldn't look like that if—_

And the missing piece snapped into place, making Bucky go rigid as though someone had just poured ice down his spine, and the cold feeling made him think _freezing_ and _debrief_ and—

He couldn't remember the words—couldn't conjure them up in his head—but they were _there_ , he could feel them, lurking in his skull like they belonged.

Fuck. _Fuck_. That was why Steve was looking at him like that. And of course Bucky only now noticed the cuts on Steve's arm, the bruises on his hands. The big one on his arm was deep. Bucky stared at it and saw crimson dripping onto pure white snow. One of Steve's hands was nearly entirely wrapped in bandages.

"What did I do?" He asked, if only to make the fragments stop dancing around in his skull, tantalizing him with pieces of the puzzle. Steve was still staring, but he was relieved. Bucky could see it in the way his eyebrows quirked.

Was that positive? Bucky didn't know. He swallowed again and tried to put a little more feeling and a little less… _soldier_ into his question. Used his name, too, because that had to be something that would prompt an answer. "Steve, what did I _do_?"

Something in that hit the mark Bucky was aiming for, because Steve cracked instantly, but he looked even more pained when he spoke. "You attacked me. We fought. Nat knocked you out."

So the redhead was named Nat—or, more likely, some variation of that name.

(Why did she look vaguely familiar?)

 _Kill the target._

Bucky's metal hand clenched into a fist again, the motors whirring loud enough for Steve to hear. Bucky forced the fingers apart.

 _He's not a goddamned target._

The knot in Bucky's stomach eased slightly, but the fear that had been running like a background hum increased because—

 _You're not following orders. Punishment imminent. Have to kill the target. Have to kill Ste—_

"Fuck," Bucky muttered, dropping his head. His tongue felt heavy, but he knew that he needed to apologize. Steve didn't deserve this.

(Right?)

 _Kill the target._

For the love of—

"I'm sorry."

Steve hadn't been expecting the apology if the hastily hidden surprise on his face was any indication. Bucky's lips twitched into what was probably a bitter expression.

When was the last time he'd been allowed to smile? Even bitterly?

 _When?_

He didn't know. He didn't even know _that_.

 _Mission failure. Target has not been eliminated—_

 _Shut up_.

"Bucky, hey—it's fine. I'm fine."

He'd been pulling against the restraints. Hadn't even realized it, but here Steve was, getting closer out of something like concern for the guy who'd tried to kill him at least three separate times—

 _Too close you idiot—_

And acting as though Bucky hadn't just been trying to kill him however long ago the latest episode was.

Steve stepped back when Bucky outwardly relaxed, but Bucky's brain was still running far too quickly. The whispers in his head weren't stopping. But they were a little quieter now. They were manageable.

 _Manageable_. What a thoroughly useless word for accurate assessments of mental state.

Bucky cursed under his breath again, solely to relieve the knot of tension in his chest.

 _Kill the target._

 _SHUT UP_.

They did. For now. The whispers faded so that they were almost inaudible. That was an improvement.

"Bucky?"

 _Stop saying my name like that, Steve._

Wait.

 _My name_.

And that was an immediate reflex. That was good. Probably.

"I'm fine," Bucky said. His eyes went to the restraints holding his arm in place. They were holding his mechanical shoulder at a slightly uncomfortable angle. Not painful. Not optimal, either.

Steve must have seen exactly where Bucky's gaze went because he shifted, almost uncomfortable. "I can't let you out of that yet."

Bucky stared at him. Steve shifted again, and Bucky looked away, at Flier, who was walking back in with a scrap of paper in one hand. "Steve, you want to ask about this now?"

Steve's lips thinned but he nodded, calling for the redhead—Natasha.

(So it _was_ a variation of Nat.)

"Bucky, do you recognize these words?" Steve asked. "Natasha is going to say them."

Something curled into an ugly loop in Bucky's stomach but he nodded anyway. Anything else would lead to distrust, and Bucky didn't want distrust right now; distrust was keeping his arm pulled to one side and a three-yard invisible line around him that none save Steve have dared to cross at all.

And distrust was making Steve give him that stupid look that made Bucky want to whack some sense into him.

(Where had that come from?)

The surge of irritation with Steve was gone as quickly as it had come, and Bucky was so distracted by it that he nearly missed the first word.

"желание."

 _OBEY_.

He froze. The joints in his metal arm locked up and then tightened, heightening performance for optimal striking power and dexterity—

"ржaвый."

 _OBEY_.

Bucky raged against the words in his head, so much louder the second time, so soon after the scientist had said them, _too_ soon, he had to—

 _OBEY._

 _ELIMINATE THE TARGET._

 _Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP_ _—_

 _OBEY._

 _I—_

 _COMPLIANCE IS NECESSARY. ELIMINATE THE TARGET._

 _SHUT UP!_

Someone was yelling his name and then Bucky was yanked off the redhead, seeing ceiling then wall then concrete as someone pinned him to the floor and wrenched his arm back so far it _hurt_ —

"Bucky! Bucky, listen to me!"

He went still.

 _OBEY._

 _KILL THE TARGET._

He tensed.

 _OBEY._

He grit his teeth and pressed his forehead into the cold concrete floor, curling his metal hand into a fist and trying to ignore the agony from his inflamed shoulder. He slammed his metal hand into the floor hard enough to crack it.

 _Obey._

It wasn't as loud. The words were gone; no more orders. Bucky just tried to breathe.

There were no orders. He wasn't complying.

He wasn't ready to comply.

He took five deep breaths and directed his attention outward. Steve was on top of him, Sam a pace away, and Natasha standing back with one hand on her throat and the cursed scrap of paper at her feet.

 _Obey._

 _Shut up._

Back to square one. He put his forehead on the floor again. Always back to square one.

 _It's only been a year._

 _It's already been a year._

He had a headache.

"Bucky, are you okay?"

The response he nearly gave was one programmed into him, and he shoved down that mission report for all he was worth and instead forced out, "Fine."

"All right, no more reading mystery papers," Sam stated, but he was careful to keep his voice quiet.

Bucky closed his eyes and did what he could to get his heart to stop beating so fast. The joints in his metal arm took a long time to loosen. He tried to listen to what the people were saying, but his body was saying _sleep_ and his mind couldn't refuse this time.

* * *

 _ **Please review.**_


	9. Chapter 9

_Is anyone actually reading this?_

* * *

 **Chapter 8**

"Just _look_ at him, Steve."

"I am. And I don't like it. We can't leave him restrained like that."

Sam pursed his lips. "He _broke_ the restraints. Those are the backups. We're lucky he was slowed down even a little. It's for our own safety—and his, because I doubt you'd be comfortable with him getting shocked again."

"I'm going to run out of stingers sooner rather than later if he decides to keep doing that," Natasha put in, though she looked more rattled than her tone showed. Sam glanced at her.

"You okay?"

She stared at him for a moment before nodding slightly. "Yeah. At least now we know what those words are."

"What?" Steve didn't know. He definitely wanted to now, after seeing Bucky go from calm to furious beyond compare in the span of three seconds.

"They're his activation sequence," Natasha said quietly, handing the paper to Steve. "HYDRA—they must have programmed it into him. A sequence of words that would make him obedient." She swallowed. "That would…weaponize him."

Steve crumpled the paper almost without noticing, trying to vent his frustration without causing property damage. He wanted to take his shield and throw it, but he had no target. The HYDRA agents were already being picked up by a SHIELD cleanup team, and Steve, Natasha, and Sam had been sure to leave the premises as quickly as possible with the unconscious Bucky in tow to avoid any complications. They'd settled on an old office complex that was probably close to Steve's age to avoid anyone walking in on them.

Bucky was restrained again, his metal arm held back with at least ten pairs of handcuffs cuffed to a pole that would, at the very least, slow Bucky down.

Sam was looking at Natasha, concern on his face, but Natasha waved him off. Steve fixed his gaze on Bucky. He hadn't resisted after his initial outburst—once Steve had pinned him, Bucky had gone still. Steve had thought he heard Russian, but Bucky was unconscious before Steve could ask.

"Is he okay?" Steve asked. He didn't know too much about medicine; he never stayed in hospitals long enough to find out, and emergency field care was rather limited.

"I don't know," Sam replied. "Physically, he'll be fine in a few hours, if his healing ability is anything like yours." The therapist sighed. "But mentally? I don't know, man. He's out of my depth, and I'm still on the fence about this."

Steve nodded, fully aware that neither Sam nor Natasha was fully invested in the idea of having an ex-HYDRA super assassin in their midst.

But _Bucky_. Every time he looked at the man, Steve felt as though he was on the tipping point between past and present. He was standing there and doing nothing while his best friend was handcuffed to a pole.

"Are you sure about not taking him anywhere more secure for a while?" Natasha eventually asked. Steve nodded.

"I don't want to startle him by having him wake up somewhere that reminds him of HYDRA."

Sam cleared his throat. "Steve, this is really long-term—and only if your friend starts recovery—but you could eventually put him in places he used to frequent."

"Brooklyn," Steve said immediately. Sam held up a hand.

"Yeah, Brooklyn. But he's gotta be comfortable first. If he's not…" He glanced at the new bruises on Natasha's neck, courtesy of Bucky when he'd snapped in response to the words. "Okay, never mind, short-term first. You need a place to stay. A place that's relatively secure and out-of-the-way. And you need someone else with you."

"Why?"

Sam groaned. "You have the self-preservation instincts of a lemming. He was trying to kill you the last time you two were close together. Any contact between you two, at least any of the lengthy kind, will need a buffer."

"And you need someone to make sure he doesn't attack you in your sleep," Natasha said. Steve frowned at her, but her expression didn't change.

Steve sighed. "Okay, you're right." He glanced at Bucky again and then bit his lip. "We can find somewhere around here—not too close, of course—and, I don't know, move from there."

Sam put a hand on Steve's shoulder. "We'll figure it out. You need to get some rest."

"I'm—"

"You're not fine, Steve, don't give me that crap. Go rest. We'll wake you up immediately if he so much as breathes funny."

Steve stared for a few seconds, warring with himself before his aching muscles won. "Immediately," he repeated. Sam nodded.

Steve was out the moment he laid down on the only dusty old couch in the building.

* * *

Much to Steve's surprise, moving into an empty house for the winter took less than two days. One day to find the place and scope it out, and one more to move everything.

Bucky was unconscious nearly the entire time; he woke briefly midway through, but he'd been semiconscious at best and had gone back under in less than a minute.

"His mind probably just needs to catch up," Sam had said, but the man had made no pretenses of being sure.

By the time they were situated, Steve had developed a healthy dislike for dust,the incredible urge to sneeze, which he did, and a profound irritation with not being able to use one of his hands. Sam and Natasha were finishing up with security by setting up sensors around the place and a few cameras. When asked where they had gotten the equipment, neither one was able to look Steve in the eye.

Steve silently apologized to the base they'd undoubtedly raided.

They put Bucky in the bedroom next to Steve's and then put a chair in there as well, simply because Steve was going to sit on the floor if that was necessary, at least until Bucky woke up.

"I'll go get groceries," Sam said. "Any preferences?"

Steve asked for basic provisions while Natasha added a few snacks and drinks. Sam wrote a quick list and took off. Meanwhile, Natasha joined Steve on Bucky-duty after making sure that the perimeter was truly secure.

"Staring at him like that isn't going to make him wake up faster, Rogers."

Steve's lips quirked. "It's either this or pacing."

"Then continue."

They descended into easy silence for a few minutes, simply watching the rise and fall of Bucky's chest under the sheets. Natasha was the one to break the peace.

"Steve."

"Yeah?"

"What if he's not the same?" Natasha's gaze held hints of worry and something else, something darker, but Steve looked back at Bucky. His shoulders rippled with tension. He still felt like throwing something, even after two days.

"He'd still be Bucky."

Natasha clearly wasn't satisfied with that answer. "But what if he's not? What if he's the opposite of everything you wanted him to be? What if he's irreparably broken?"

Steve set his jaw. He'd thought Bucky dead for years. But before that train, before either one of them had joined the army—

Bucky had been his everything. The friend that was there for him no matter what, through thick and thin, until the end of the line. And this—Bucky, unconscious but gloriously _alive_ on the bed—was certainly not the end. So Steve saw no reason to change his answer.

"He's my friend, Nat."

Surprisingly, she accepted that answer. Quiet reigned until a phone's ringtone made Steve flinch. Natasha gave him a sympathetic look before holding up the offending device.

"I have to take this—they're checking in."

"Nat—"

"Relax, Rogers. Your secret's safe with me."

She walked out of the room and Steve let out a deep breath, his eyes falling once more on Bucky's face. He'd already memorized Bucky's features but he couldn't help looking again. Bucky was a magnet and Steve realized that he was staring at his friend with wonder; wonder that he was alive, that he was okay (relatively), that he was _there_.

Sam returned with the groceries not too long after that. Natasha agreed to watch Bucky while Sam and Steve unpacked and stored the supplies.

"How many kinds of cheese did you _get_ , Sam?"

"They had too many, Steve. I was overwhelmed."

* * *

 _ **Please review.**_


	10. Chapter 10

_Oh, Bucky. I'm sorry you wound up on my favorite characters list._

* * *

 **Chapter 9**

"I know you're awake."

Bucky conceded his defeat to who he presumed was Natasha—the redhead—by opening his eyes. As he expected, she was seated next to his bed, staring at him.

"How did I get here?"

 _Priorities_.

He wasn't hurt, as far as he could tell. His metal arm didn't feel limited or damaged at all. Mentally, he was well-rested and thinking logically. No obvious injuries of any sort. Bucky couldn't see any immediate threats, and Natasha didn't have any weapons immediately visible (that didn't mean much, though).

"You're still in Wisconsin," Natasha answered after a beat, still staring at him with an odd look in her eyes. "We just moved you to a better location."

 _Better how?_

She must have understood his unvoiced question. "It's a house. Big enough for you to have space if you need it. But Steve is staying with you. Sam and I, too."

Sam. Sam must be Flier. Bucky focused on that piece of information to avoid thinking about the rest.

"Barnes?"

He was slightly grateful for the fact that she didn't presume to call him anything else. They weren't friends.

 _You shot her._

He'd shot a lot of people. His conscience might as well give up at this point.

"Why am I here?" He sat up after asking the question, avoiding eye contact with Natasha when he realized she'd flinched at the sudden movement. Instead, he examined the room. It didn't seem to be anything special; there were pictures on the walls of places Bucky had never seen with people he'd never met.

Natasha chose to answer the wrong question. "We're borrowing the place for a while. The owners are away."

"That's not what I asked."

"I know."

Bucky stared at her for a few seconds. She met his eyes and held them, her angular features holding a challenge.

His metal arm whirred softly.

Bucky looked away first.

 _No more._

"Why," he repeated.

"The short answer is Steve." Natasha paused. Bucky waited; she was undoubtedly thinking. "You're his friend, and he's got this odd habit of sticking to his friends no matter the consequences. He couldn't just let you go."

There was something beyond that. Something she wasn't saying or didn't know. But it was there, hovering just beyond Bucky's reach.

 _Breathe. Inhale, exhale._

Keep respiration and pulse normal.

"How did I get here?" He turned to look at her, not willing to let her deflect the question this time. "What happened?"

He could see something in her eyes flicker, a minute tautness to her muscles. "You attacked us again."

He ignored the _again_. He knew about the first time. "Why?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Why?" He waited, and she lost her lighthearted expression and tone. "We found a piece of paper that had your command sequence on it."

Bucky's metal hand tightened into a fist on reflex, nearly tearing the sheets. Pulse elevated. Breathing elevated.

 _Calm down, Barnes._

But he couldn't.

"What did you do with it?"

"Steve burned it personally once we realized what it was."

That wasn't as comforting as it should have been, but Bucky still relaxed. Slightly.

"Hey, Sam!"

"Yeah?"

"Where are we putting the popcorn?"

"Middle drawer in the pantry."

Bucky's gaze darted to the doorway. Steve was in the kitchen with Sam. It was somewhat strange to know their names—

 _Eliminate the targets._

Oh, so they were all targets now. Great. All the same,

 _Shut up_.

Natasha was looking at him again. "What?"

"Nothing. You're…calmer than I was expecting."

"If I did anything, you would hit me with those electrical devices. I'd be incapacitated and returned here anyway. There's no point to doing anything."

"Well, that's more than two sentences. I'll count that. Steve! He's awake!"

Bucky shifted the covers so that Steve wouldn't be able to see the way the joints in his metal arm were shifting and tightening.

 _Eliminate the target_.

 _Shut up_.

And then Steve was in the room. Staring at him. For a tense second, neither of them said anything. Then relief filled Steve's face.

"Bucky."

Bucky blinked and looked at the man that was—had been—was still?—his best friend. "Steve."

* * *

It took Bucky exactly two hours and three minutes to leave the room they'd put him in. The initial conversation with Steve had lasted barely five minutes, because Sam Wilson had intervened before Bucky began hyperventilating.

(Too close, Steve. _Way too close._ )

So now Bucky was sitting at the small table in the kitchen, his back to the corner and his field of vision covering the whole room. Steve was watching him while leaning back against the island. Bucky was fine with the looks; he couldn't do anything about them, and Steve was…Steve.

As long as he stayed out of Bucky's immediate reach.

"You trained here, you know," Steve eventually said. Bucky glanced at him. "At Camp McCoy, for the 107th."

He didn't remember. Steve kept talking anyway.

"You kept trying to tell me not to enlist, even though you were going away to fight. Because I was weak."

He remembered that—remembered worry. "You were sick. Physically limited from performing well in service."

Steve looked momentarily taken aback, and then smiled softly, looking down at the glass of water in his hands. "Yeah, I was. And then I wasn't."

Bucky examined his metal hand during the ensuing quiet. Outside, snowflakes fell in continuous swirls, directed by the wind until they stuck to the ground.

"Hey, Bucky."

Was he supposed to respond to that?

"Why did you come here? To Wisconsin, I mean."

Apparently not. He flexed his fingers one by one. "I don't know. Couldn't leave the country yet."

"Why not?"

"SHIELD was—is—looking. Would've captured me. I was waiting for them to focus on other things."

Steve didn't say anything else. Bucky went back to examining his hand.

It continued to snow.

* * *

 _ **Please review.**_


	11. Chapter 11

_I'm rereading TFOW right now and the most painful part about it is that, in about a year, I'm gonna reread this and think the exact same things._

 _Also, this site is being stupid right now, so I can't read/respond to reviews._

* * *

 **Chapter 10**

Steve had expected not being able to sleep for most of the night. He had not anticipated not being able to sleep at all. That unpleasant surprise left him lying on his bed, his gaze fixed to the ceiling while he tried to dial back his awareness that Bucky's room was only a little ways down the hall.

Bucky was alive. Bucky remembered.

(How much? How much did he remember?)

"'Physically limited from performing well in service', huh?" Steve muttered. So Bucky knew that Steve had been sick when he was younger, but the way he talked about it—an assessment from a soldier. Not a friend.

 _But he said it. He knew._

Everything was quiet even though both Sam and Natasha were also in the house; Sam was on the pullout couch, insisting that Natasha take the one remaining bedroom. Not to anyone's surprise, Natasha hadn't argued that much—not that Sam would have let her take the couch even if she'd tried. Natasha would have to leave soon, but for now, they were working with their current arrangement. Bucky seemed to be relatively fine with it. He hadn't tried to leave despite having plenty of opportunity to do so.

 _He's here. I found him. Bucky's alive._

Steve blew out a breath. He wasn't going to sleep no matter what he did, so he got up and stretched, enjoying the midnight quiet. The snow had mostly let up, leaving Steve with a view of white-covered trees bathed in moonlight just outside his window. A ways away, the nearest house had its porch light on. From their investigations, Steve knew that the house had a teenager who was prone to coming home late.

He was tempted to say "Kids these days", but considering that he had spent his spare time picking fights when he was younger, he figured it wasn't his business.

Nothing stirred when Steve stepped into the hall, and he silently made his way to the kitchen. Sam was snoring quietly on the pullout mattress, one hand hanging over the edge, his fingertips brushing the floor.

Steve grabbed a banana, only to pause before unpeeling it. Recalling past unpleasant experiences with awful bananas (did no one else taste how bad they were?), Steve went for a pear instead. After cutting it into equal sections he took his place to the table and quietly ate, the familiar taste gradually easing his mind.

At least they couldn't mess up pears. Or watermelon, for that matter.

He finished the first quarter and reached for the second, only to stop when muffled shouting echoed throughout the house.

Sam stirred in his sleep but didn't wake. Steve frowned and got up, quickly heading back the way he'd come while remaining alert for any threats. None of the proximity sensors had gone off, and both Natasha and Sam had checked them multiple times to be absolutely sure that they were functional.

Another strangled yell, followed by several suspicious thunks.

The noises were coming from Bucky's room.

Steve opened the door, ready for anything even though he already suspected what was happening. He saw Bucky on his bed, the covers thrown off—one sheet had caught on a picture, dragging it to the floor—and his body covered in sweat. His face was contorted, his metal arm whirring in protest as Bucky spasmed on the bed.

He spoke rapid-fire Russian only to switch to English and then a language Steve didn't have the mind to identify midway through and Steve darted forward, determined to wake him up, if only to spare him from whatever nightmare had him in its clutches.

"Bucky!"

Shouting didn't work. Steve avoided a wild swing from Bucky's metal arm and pinned him down as best he could. "Bucky!"

Bucky's eyes shot open upon contact, but they weren't focused on Steve at all. In an instant, Steve found himself on the floor, the breath gone from his lungs and his chest aching. He rolled out of the way of a follow-up attack on instinct, but Bucky was relentless. Steve defended as best he could while stepping back before drop-kicking Bucky when he felt the bed frame against his calves. The younger man hit the ground hard while Steve bounced back to his feet off the mattress.

"Bucky, wake up!" Steve said. "Bucky!"

"—m awake," Bucky muttered. He was splayed out on his back, having remained still after Steve kicked him. From the way he was staring with glassy eyes at the ceiling, Steve couldn't tell whether he was actually awake. "Too early, pal."

Steve knew that sleepy drawl like he knew that backs of his own hands, and hearing it send a shard of glass through his heart. "Buck…"

Bucky was abruptly on his feet and on guard, clearly staring at Steve as though the last two minutes hadn't happened. His eyes were cold and he had a knife in his hand. Steve hadn't even noticed him grab it in the brief moment they'd been fighting. There was no hint of a sleepy drawl in his words when he spoke. "Why are you in here?"

Steve swallowed the hollow ache in his throat before answering. "You were having a nightmare. I woke you up."

"Oh." Bucky straightened. The knife disappeared. "Sorry."

"That's not—" Steve started, only to pause midway through and soften his tone. "That's not something you have to apologize for. If you want to talk…"

"I'm fine."

Steve pursed his lips, unwilling to accept that answer. Bucky was still breathing heavier than normal and his gaze kept darting about the room as though he expected to see something emerge from the shadows.

Like hell Steve was going to just leave him like that. "You don't have to talk, then. Come on; we're having a midnight snack."

He didn't take no for an answer and soon they were in the kitchen. Steve pushed the remainder of his fruit at Bucky and cut up another pear for himself. He was sorely tempted to sit next to Bucky, largely because Bucky looked so lost sitting alone at the table while staring at the plate of pears. But Sam had made it clear that Steve had to respect Bucky's barriers, that Bucky had to get used to being around them without being pressured. He could only push things so much.

"If you don't want your pear, I can eat it," Steve offered. Bucky glanced at him and then back at the plate.

"I'll eat it."

And he did. Slowly. Steve stayed with him quietly until Bucky finished and they went back to their own rooms. The entire encounter had a surreal quality to it, made even more so by the fact that neither Sam nor Natasha had woken up for its entire duration.

* * *

 _ **Please review.**_


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 11**

Breakfast was awkward. Despite the sunlight streaming through the windows—the sunlight that had been absent the past few days—the kitchen didn't feel as bright as it should have. Steve focused on eating his fruit-laden cereal, trying not to glance up every few seconds to make sure that Bucky was still sitting at the table. He was eating cereal as well, though Bucky had also grabbed some toast and a glass of orange juice.

The thought that he might not be there when Steve looked up again had Steve slightly on edge, almost as much as the memory of Bucky's nightmare the previous night.

Steve's spoon hit the bottom of the bowl. He stared down at it for a moment until his mind kicked into gear and he took the empty bowl to the sink, washed it, and put it in the dishwasher. From the living room, Steve heard groaning.

"What is it with super-people and getting up early?" Sam muttered, sitting up and looking around. "'Morning, Steve. Or is it still night?"

"Ha ha," Steve replied dryly. "It's almost eight, Sam."

The man was staring at him. Then Sam shook his head slowly. "I think you mean it's _only_ eight. How long have you been up?"

"Two hours or so," Steve responded, not bothering to mention that he hadn't really slept at all. "Are you up for a run?"

Steve saw Bucky glance at him out of the corner of his eye, but when Bucky didn't say anything, Steve returned his attention to Sam. The veteran was stretching, and he didn't respond until his arms dropped back to his sides.

"Yeah, just give me a few minutes to get ready and have some food. What's the weather?"

"Twenty-seven and sunny today."

"Sounds awesome. At least I got hot chocolate waiting for me when I get back."

"Natasha should be back any minute. We'll run then."

"Got it."

As Sam went to get changed, Steve checked the refrigerator and pantry for any protein bars or good post-jog foods. He settled on two protein bars and set them on the counter. He could whip up something better later.

"Where are you running to?"

Steve glanced up at Bucky, who was looking at him with an unreadable expression.

"Just around the lake," Steve replied. "There's a road that wraps around it. I'll be back in less than half an hour."

"You trust me to be alone with her?"

"Who?"

"The redhead. Natasha."

Steve frowned slightly. "Of course I do, Bucky. Unless you think I shouldn't."

"I attacked you. Five times."

"You weren't in control."

"And if I lose control here?"

 _Why are you pressing so hard, Bucky? What are you trying to tell me?_

"You won't. You're safe here."

Bucky clenched his metal hand into a fist. "How do you know that? How do you know that I won't try to kill you like I have every single time we've met? How do you know that, Steve?"

"You haven't tried to kill me every time," Steve returned evenly, trying to ignore the broken tone to Bucky's voice. "When I met you on the street—you didn't try to kill me then. Do you not want me to leave? I can stay if that's what you want."

"No, I—" Bucky cut himself off and looked away, his mouth set in a frustrated line. "No."

 _What is it? Tell me, Buck. I can't read your mind._

But Bucky wasn't saying anything else. Steve sighed softly and then grabbed a cell phone off the counter. "Here." He tossed it to Bucky, who caught it with an air of slight bewilderment. "It's got my number, Sam's, and one of Natasha's. If something happens or you need to talk, I'll always pick up."

Bucky pocketed the phone without a word.

A short series of beeps went off throughout the house. Steve tensed and glanced at the camera feed on the TV screen mounted on the wall and relaxed when he saw that it was Natasha approaching.

"It's Natasha," he said, turning to Bucky just in case the noise had startled him.

He had a knife. Where the hell had he gotten a knife?

Seeing Steve staring at the weapon, Bucky quickly put it away and didn't offer an explanation.

"Honey, I'm home!" Natasha called when she entered, closing the door behind her. She walked up to Steve after depositing her bag of what Steve guessed were clothes on the counter. "I can only stay for another week," she muttered quietly enough so that Bucky wouldn't be able to hear. "After that, you and Sam are on your own."

"We'll figure it out then. Thank you for this, Natasha."

She stepped back and smirked. "You're welcome. I used your card, by the way. Hope you don't mind."

Sam walked in at that moment, dressed for the run.

"Ready?" he asked, his question directed at Steve but his eyes focused on Bucky, who looked distinctly uncomfortable with everyone in the same room. Steve gave Natasha a vaguely disapproving frown for the card situation and then turned towards the door.

"Yeah."

* * *

The run went quickly. Steve waved to his temporary new neighbors, responding to their friendly greetings as he ran. Most were shoveling their driveways but seemed to recognize Steve as their neighbor when he ran past. Evidently news of their arrival in the community had already spread around.

He lapped Sam several times before they finished, but by the end of it Steve was feeling pretty refreshed by the cold air. Once they were back inside the house, Sam immediately prepared his hot chocolate.

"Hot chocolate is the best thing since regular chocolate," Sam said as he took a drink from his mug.

"If you say so."

"I do. I do say so."

Steve let Sam have first shower—they were sharing, since Bucky and Natasha each got their own—and by the time Steve's turn came, his sweat had dried to a clammy shell on his skin.

It felt nice to wash off.

Bucky was nowhere to be seen when Steve wandered into the living room, but Steve didn't want to seem overbearing by looking for him. He hadn't gotten any messages on his phone during the run, so Bucky hadn't found any reason to call.

Eyeing the bookshelves along one wall, Steve reached out and picked a random one from among the titles, setting it aside to read after he ate his post-exercise meal.

He found out fifteen minutes later that the book was about World War I. The owner of the house was apparently a history buff; upon reexamining the shelves, Steve saw that the books were ordered chronologically and alphabetically by era. They stretched back as far as the seventeenth century, most of them focusing on wars and conflicts.

There were six alone on World War II, and four more after that seemingly dedicated to the Cold War and other consequences of the war. There were two on Nazis, and one on HYDRA as a rogue extension of the Nazi science division.

Steve pulled that one out and eyed the HYDRA logo printed on the book's cover and then, after only a moment's consideration, set the book aside. He had plenty of spare time, and learning more about the past wouldn't hurt. He made a plan to at least skim one book from each major category; maybe then he'd start to understand the references people kept making. Natasha and Sam could only do so much to help out.

He wasn't sure how much time passed with him reading in the living room's comfortable armchair. Natasha and Sam wandered through at several points, engaged in their own daily routines that hadn't been upset by the move.

Steve only noticed Bucky when the brown-haired man went to turn a page and the sun caught on his metal arm.

 _When did you come in here?_

Trying to be discreet, Steve snuck a look at the title of the book Bucky was reading, almost dreading what he would see. Would Bucky be able to handle reading about HYDRA? Steve had no idea. How much was enough to upset him?

But no, Bucky was reading about the American Revolution, and had been for a while if his comfortable position on the couch meant anything.

He looked calm. His eyes were focused on the page, roving across and down with each line of text, and his metal hand occasionally moved to turn the page while he supported the book in his right hand. Discounting the haircut, he looked so much like the Bucky Steve had left behind that it took Steve a few seconds to drag his eyes away.

 _He's not that Bucky, Rogers_ , he told himself. _He's still Bucky, but he's not_ that _Bucky._

That thought didn't stop his heart from aching, but Steve forced his eyes back onto the pages of his book.

He was on the Battle of Lone Pine when Sam tapped him on the shoulder. "Do you want me to prepare lunch?"

"Yes, that would be great."

"Sounds good. By the way, what are your feelings on cards and board games? We're going to have a lot of time to kill."

"I'm all for them."

"Awesome. Are we all good with sandwiches? I can make a mean BLT, or something else if that's what you want."

Bucky seemed surprised when he glanced up and saw Steve and Bucky looking to him for his request. After a few seconds of silence, he looked back down at his book while saying, "I'll have what Steve has."

Sam and Steve exchanged a look and then the former shrugged.

"All right then. Chef Wilson is on this."

"I can give you some tips," Steve offered with a slight smile.

"You plant your butt in that seat. I'm trying to be helpful."

* * *

 ** _Please review._**


	13. Chapter 13

_Get ready for bad decisions._

* * *

 **Chapter 12**

He woke up cold. It wasn't the first time; in the week since he'd first woken up in the house, Bucky had experienced this feeling upon waking three times. His mind was a sheet of ice—clear and cold and so close to shattering but everything was clear, objective. He sat up in the bed that was too soft and stared at the wall, his mind already running.

 _Eliminate the target_.

The voice was always louder when his mind was like this. Every syllable of the command crisp and controlled, every repetition sure in its ability to make him get up.

 _Shut up._

He got up, hyperaware of the three knives he had already hidden on his person by the time he walked into the kitchen.

The target was making omelets, his back to the soldier.

Perhaps he made a sound when he sat at the table. Either way, the target glanced his way.

"Good morning, Bucky."

That was it. That was all the target said. But that was all it took to melt the ice and Bucky's grip on the knife in his hand loosened. He tucked it out of sight before Steve could notice it.

Breakfast came and went in relative silence. Steve went running, came back, ate again. Bucky went to the couch and picked up the book he'd been reading in the meantime, focusing on the Revolution as though the descriptions of the damage the muskets could do when they actually hit the target could drown out the fact that he felt absolutely nothing for the victims.

 _A house, old with peeling paint. A man in the front yard and a woman visible in the kitchen._

 _Two targets._

 _The first dropped without a sound. The second didn't notice and fell to the white, white floor with a red hole in her skull._

 _Mission complete._

He turned the page and read without reading until Steve walked into the room, freshly showered. He began reading too; something about World War I, the same book he'd been reading before.

Bucky wasn't sure why he'd begun reading in the same room as Steve; it had just happened, and the uninterrupted silence had felt far less constricting than the quiet of his room.

 _Silence and cold and unable to speak—_

He turned the page. A few moments later, Steve did the same.

 _—suffocating silence and frost that seeps into his bones and freezes his insides and something deeper than that begins to crack—_

"You liked reading."

Bucky didn't react. His training prevented him from so much as twitching. Steve continued to speak anyway.

"Tried to hide it from me, 'course, because then I'd have something to needle you with in return for you jabbing at my drawings."

He had no memory of that. No idea that Steve drew. That he used to enjoy reading.

"We never really had books, though. You kept making up excuses to go to the library—I realized pretty quick, after that. Gave you a book and a library card for your next birthday."

Steve paused and Bucky realized he wasn't reading about the muskets anymore. He'd just been staring at the page, listening. He knew he was supposed to respond but he had nothing to say.

"We argued about it for days. You told me I shouldn't've wasted my money on paper when I needed medicine and food." Bucky glanced up at Steve, just to see the face he was making. He was expecting bitterness, longing, but there was nothing but fondness and a slight heaviness in the slight curve of Steve's lips. "I told you to shut up and read."

Bucky returned his gaze to the words held in his hands but he couldn't focus on them.

 _Eliminate the target._

Steve was sitting very close, objectively. A few yards. Bucky could get up, remove the ceramic knife from its hidden sheath, and slide it between Steve's ribs (or across his throat) before Steve could so much as stand. He'd never see it coming, save for that final second. He'd look at Bucky with betrayal in his eyes. Pain too, probably. Like on the helicarrier, but it had been more resignation than betrayal then.

( _Distraction, optimal time to strike, opponent weakened by emotional attachments—)_

Steve had looked at him like that but still fought, still battled Bucky with everything he had to in order to stop Project Insight. And then he'd helped Bucky at the risk of his own life.

( _Reckless. Target weakened, vulnerable, unwilling to fight back—)_

But _why_. Why had he done that? He'd put the people over Bucky and then put Bucky over himself. There was no advantage to that. None at all. But he'd done it without any hesitation. He'd gone into that fight not caring whether he lived or died.

 _Eliminate the target._

And now he was sitting so close, his shield out of sight, his gaze focused on the book he held. Not cautious of Bucky at all.

It was trust. Misplaced and unearned.

But.

 _Eliminate the target._

Bucky turned the page even though he hadn't read a single word of it. He wanted to know why Steve had done those things; after over a year on the run he still hadn't figured it out despite writing the everything he could think of in that notebook and rereading it so many times the pages were starting to tear. He wanted to know. He _had_ to know who the person was that deserved trust that deep.

 _Eliminate the target._

He focused on the words on the page and regulated his breathing.

 _No._

The refusal rang through his head for a moment before nausea rose in his core. Flashes of chains and lights and _red red red_ cascaded in front of his eyes and pain echoed down his back and through his head in bright, agonizing sparks as voices mocked and _you shouldn't have done that, Soldier—_

Bucky kept his body rock still and didn't let a single sign of distress appear on his face. The episode passed after a few seconds, the nausea slowly abating.

He'd refused an order. Punishment would come eventually—it always did—but for now.

For now he could focus on Steve, and learn.

* * *

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	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 13**

He gradually began to identify the cold days as the bad days. On those days everything he did seemed to upset Steve in some minor way, and while Natasha hid her reactions, Sam was visibly disturbed at times. So when he woke up with that mindset, he told them he was having a bad day, and suddenly his actions were excused.

It made no sense when he thought about it. That cold sense of the world was efficient; everything was a target or an objective and he was just a soldier. It wasn't bad or good; it just was.

But that state of mind set Steve on edge and bred distrust and made it harder to learn, so Bucky set it aside, storing it for a better time.

(It had been days, and the voice hadn't come back except for those cold mornings, and _where was the correction?_ He'd disobeyed orders but there was nothing. No punishment. No pain.)

At night he stared at the ceiling. Sometimes he slept; he only knew that because he woke up breathing hard and sweaty, phantom images dancing in the dark until he truly woke and his night vision washed them away. Twice Steve had been in the room, waking him up—but he stopped after the second time, and Bucky supposed he'd learned how to scream without making a sound.

That was a necessary skill. In the field he never made an unnecessary sound.

He didn't speak much, but the reading time in the living room became a kind of ritual. He and Steve had finished their books quickly and without a word moved on to the next ones; Bucky now had one about the twenties and the Great Depression, while Steve was reading about the Cold War.

(There was a book, not hidden well, tucked between the couch cushions. Bucky didn't investigate, but it moved every now and then.)

During that time, Steve would occasionally share a random bit of their history. Bucky didn't remember anything about the people or places Steve mentioned, but Steve's voice was calming, and every piece of information was a piece Bucky slotted into the image of the person he'd once been. Slowly, day after day, he built that personality with Steve's words and the information he gathered on his own, through two books about Steve he'd swiped from the shelves, the museum exhibit, and the internet.

(Sam was under the impression Bucky hadn't been made to learn how to operate technology. Bucky saw no advantage to informing him otherwise; the man had a good taste in laptops.)

He encouraged Steve's stories. Not every time, but more than once he felt a need to know more. He didn't know why; it was an alien feeling. He'd never needed to know more than he was told before. Complete the mission, return. But he asked for more stories and Steve obliged.

More often than not he spent his time thinking. Adding bits and pieces to the past him, James Buchanan Barnes, the man who was and was not Bucky. Filling in the gaps to make the perfect cover. He knew infiltration; he could become anyone.

So he crafted James and tried to pretend that his mind didn't focus on the way Steve looked at him when he thought Bucky wasn't paying attention.

Those glances hurt. Not excessively, never enough to do more than get Bucky's notice, but they built up. Bucky only realized after two days that he was intentionally avoiding Steve just so he wouldn't have to deal with the stares. He realized this and continued to do it. Their reading time—established on accident—fell apart for a day until Bucky resurrected it for the sole purpose of gaining information. He stopped avoiding Steve and put up with the stares, finding within them the motivation to build up James. Those and the smile Steve had on his face when he talked about the Bucky that had been.

Everything became a source of information. He watched Sam and Natasha when they were around, focusing on how they interacted with Steve and the way Steve interacted with them.

Natasha was the one his mind flagged as the most dangerous. If he became James, she would be the one to notice anything off about him beyond the sudden change. Whether she would tell Steve, Bucky didn't know. She seemed to genuinely like Steve, but Bucky knew that ripping away Steve's Bucky for the second time would be far crueler than letting it be. How cruel was Natasha willing to be if she felt any kind of emotional attachment?

Echoes of mission briefings told Bucky the answer, and he resolved to never be alone in the same room as her. He could use other people as buffers while he built his cover to withstand her gaze.

This wouldn't even be Bucky's first time imitating a dead man.

 _My name is James Buchanan Barnes._

He practiced that in his room when he knew no one was around. He practiced the voice, the body language, and the facial expressions he'd seen in books and films and described in Steve's memories. He practiced until it all came naturally, until he could slip into James's skin without any effort at all. He practiced until he _was_ James.

Two weeks after moving into the house, Bucky woke up in the middle of the night. He heard footsteps; heavy, a familiar tread.

 _Steve._

It was late. Bucky's body was mildly tired. But he stood anyway, instinct driving him to take two steps before the flash of reflected moonlight on his metal arm made him pause. He held up his metal hand, watching for a moment as the joints moved in perfect synchronization to permit him complete flexibility.

He held up his human hand. Compared the two.

One thing lost, one thing gained. Was it an even trade?

He could hear Steve getting himself a glass of water in the kitchen, even through the closed door.

In the back of Bucky's mind, James Buchanan Barnes stepped forward. Bucky considered for a minute, staring at the smooth door in front of him. Then he let the persona settle over him, filling in the holes and cold spots with warmth that bled into his expression, until Bucky was little more than a nickname for the man stepping out of his room.

* * *

 _ **Please review.**_


	15. Chapter 15

_Hey guys! Just so you know, things may get a little more graphic in the future. Some details of what happened to Bucky and the like will surface, and may be explained in relative detail. I'll put warnings on the chapters anything possibly disturbing appears in._

* * *

 **Chapter 14**

He thought it was a dream, at first. His mind had done crueler things with his memories of Bucky. But this? It was too real. And Bucky—he still had his long hair, and he still looked as though he hadn't slept for a week—but.

"Don't just stand there like some sap," Bucky said with a grin that nearly made Steve drop his water glass. "No good morning?" He glanced at the clock and frowned. "When does morning even start? Would it still be nighttime right now?"

Steve knew he was staring. He also knew his mouth was hanging open and his grip on the water glass was becoming dangerously loose.

He was dreaming. He _had_ to be dreaming. Because Bucky's smirk was exactly as he remembered it, and that special lilt to his voice that came with the half-smile was throwing Steve for a loop.

Then Sam groaned from the living room and Steve realized that whatever was going on here was very, very real.

"Bucky?" he whispered hoarsely, setting down his glass before he dropped it. "What are you—what?"

Bucky raised one eyebrow. "I knew I'd surprise you, but wow. Thought you'd be able to do more than stand 'n stare."

Synapses were firing in Steve's head but without purpose or direction. "How. I don't…You were—you're—"

The other man looked almost sheepish, unable to meet Steve's eyes while he scrubbed his hand through his hair in an achingly familiar gesture, even if the strands were longer than they had been and the arm was metal. "My mind's in a bit of a scramble, but a few things clicked into place." He looked up, and worry filled his gaze to the point of panic. "This is right, right? I'm—me?"

Steve yanked himself together and nodded. "Yeah. Yes." He raked his gaze over Bucky and resisted the urge to walk over and touch him just to make sure that he was real.

"Steve, it's too late for this," Sam said as he walked into the room, rubbing his eyes while he spoke over a barely suppressed yawn. "Rest of us 've gotta sleep. We're not all super soldiers."

And then he noticed Bucky, and tensed, his gaze darting to Steve. Steve could only manage and confused shake of his head, and something in that must have conveyed the absolute mess of emotions in his head, because Sam's eyes filled with suspicion that he masked before facing Bucky, now fully awake.

"Barnes," Sam greeted with the correct tone for someone who had just been woken up before sunrise by the people he lived with.

"Hey," Bucky said in return. He hesitated a moment, and Steve saw the guilt in his eyes. "Listen, I'm—I'm real sorry for ripping your wing off. And kicking you off the helicarrier."

"Apology not accepted," Sam said immediately, but Steve had spotted the way he'd physically rocked back on his heels at the utter sincerity in Bucky's tone. He glanced Steve's way and made The Face—the _what superhero nonsense is this?_ expression that Steve had found on his own face more than once thanks to the people he hung out with.

Steve could only shrug. Bucky cleared his throat to get their attention.

"Steve, maybe we could have this talk in the morning? I'm still beat. Just thought I'd get a drink tonight; I didn't mean to startle you or anything."

"Yeah. That's fine with me."

It wasn't fine. It wasn't fine at all. Steve wanted to stare Bucky down and drink in his every detail, his every word and expression and movement until the sun came up, but Sam would tell him that wasn't healthy and Steve would only wake up even sadder if all of this turned out to be a dream. So he ended up back in his bed, staring at the ceiling and not sleeping a wink.

* * *

The next morning, Bucky was still Bucky. He cracked jokes, needled Steve, and treated Natasha the same way he'd treated every dame he'd come across. Of course, once Natasha pointed out that she could kill him six ways to Sunday, he'd ceased all flirting—even jokingly—and apologized.

Every twitch of Bucky's lips, every mischievous flash of light in his eyes—it was so familiar it hurt.

And that was the worst part. Bucky noticed immediately whenever Steve felt one of those pangs of longing (why was he longing for something else when Bucky was _there_ —that was a question, too, one that Steve didn't have the energy to answer). He would immediately back off and try to soothe Steve, which only made things worse.

Every soft word and gentle touch brought him back to Brooklyn, when his breath rattled in his lungs and his throat was three sizes too small for his body. When Bucky was the only one besides Steve's mother who stayed by Steve's side even when Steve couldn't do more than sleep and cough.

Steve excused himself from dinner and went to his room, weary and craving rest more than he had in days. He fell on his bed and rolled onto his side, debating whether it was worth it to get under the covers.

He wasn't sure how much time passed before he heard the knock on the door.

"Steve?"

"I just need some sleep, Buck," Steve replied, knowing that Bucky would hear him even through the door. "You know I don't get sick like I used to."

"I still worry, pal. Your body's different but your mind's the same."

 _If only you could say the same_.

That was a bad thought. Steve chased it out of his head. "Honest, I'm fine. I'll see you in the morning?"

Bucky was silent for a moment and Steve could almost picture him resting his forehead against the door and sighing. He'd done that a lot when Steve tried to pretend like he was all right and didn't need Bucky's help.

Then, "If you say so. G'night, Steve."

"G'night, Bucky."

* * *

Bucky was Bucky for the day after that, too. And the one after that.

Steve wanted to be happy. He _was_ happy, in truth, but there was something wrong. He couldn't put his finger on it, but of course Sam and Natasha were there to have his back.

"It ain't right, Steve," Sam said bluntly. He and Steve were supposed to be going out on their usual run, but Sam had only taken a lap before stopping and waving Steve down before the other man could pass him. Steve, of course, knew immediately what Sam was referring to.

"We don't know exactly what goes on in his head," Steve pointed out. "Maybe whatever they did to him—maybe it just took a little time."

"As much as I want that to be true, the odds of that being possible given what we've seen of his file are so small I don't have the words to articulate that size. Plus, to have him flip personalities so quickly is suspect as hell. There's something more going on here."

Steve appreciated Sam's worry, but he wasn't as taken with Bucky as Sam seemed to believe. "I know something's up. I just…I want to see how long this can last."

"That isn't healthy. You should put your foot down, before either one of you does something painful."

Steve thought of the way his chest ached whenever he saw Bucky's smile. "A little late for that. But he's trying."

Sam sighed. "That may be—and I honestly don't know, because this guy is way out of my therapy league if I'm bothering to be truthful with myself—but it might be making things worse, if he sees the person he was as an act. If he disconnects himself from what he was, things could get a hell of a lot harder. Or, if he thinks that, by using it, he can get your guard down and—"

"He won't attack me."

Sam pursed his lips. "It's your call. Just…keep one eye open, okay?"

"I will," Steve promised.

The rest of the run passed in silence.

* * *

Steve dreamt of flying cars and impassive faces that night. Even when he woke he couldn't get 4F out of his head.

"Morning, Rogers."

He had his shield in an instant but relaxed when he saw who was leaning against the opposite wall.

"You trying to give me a heart attack first thing on purpose, Nat?" Steve asked while setting down his shield. The redhead smirked. Since her missions had started up again, she'd been a little more relaxed around the house when she dropped by for a day or longer at a time.

"Gotta keep limber at your age." She abruptly became serious. "This is the only time I could speak with you without him getting suspicious. Sam already talked to you about this, but I figured you wouldn't listen to him. You're stubborn like that."

"I try." Steve took a deep breath and sat a little more comfortably on his bed. "This is about Bucky."

"You know any other brainwashed cyborg assassins? He's dangerous."

"He's confused."

"My point stands. I know he's your friend. I've seen the exhibits, heard the stories. I've talked with him these past few days and he puts up a great act. But that's what it is—an act. He's treating Bucky Barnes like a cover."

"How do you know?"

Natasha cocked her head. "He has tells. Very slight ones; he's almost as good as I am. Almost. And there's this." She held up her phone. Or one of them; Steve wasn't sure he'd seen that pink case before. Natasha had a thing for ridiculous phone cases when she wasn't on a mission. Steve wasn't exactly sure why, but it wasn't his place to question her.

"What am I supposed to be looking at?"

"Not looking. Hearing." She tapped a few icons on the screen and suddenly Steve heard Bucky's voice.

"You recorded him?"

"I bugged his room," Natasha admitted without any guilt at all. "Before you freak out, he's asleep right now."

"I thought—"

"He was too paranoid for bugs? He stopped sweeping after day four."

"Why?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. Either way, it helped me pick up on this."

Bucky's voice was still going on. Steve tried to keep his breathing even as he heard Bucky—he was rehearsing. He was rehearsing the lines Steve had heard countless times over the past few days. Steve's heart beat an unsteady rhythm in his chest as he heard Bucky's inflection go from flat to exactly as Steve remembered.

"He…he was practicing," was all Steve could say. "Practicing how to be…himself?"

"How to be Bucky," Natasha corrected, turning her phone off and tucking it away. "More specifically, the Bucky that appeared in all your stories. Do you realize how sad you look when you talk about the past, Rogers?"

"I—no?"

Natasha sighed. "He's a blank slate. His memories—if he wasn't faking those too—are fractured and undoubtedly jumbled up. There's no telling how deep his HYDRA conditioning runs. All of this could be another attempt to—"

"To ruin me? To kill me? He could've done that on the carrier. He could've left me to drown. But he saved me instead."

"You don't know that for sure."

Steve set his jaw. Bucky had pulled him out of the river. No one else could have. He'd had so many chances and hadn't taken advantage of any of them. Natasha must have seen that belief in his face because she sighed.

"All right, fine. But this? The disguise of the man you remembered? You can't let that continue. Sam believes wholeheartedly that what Bucky is doing will only hurt him in the long run. Maybe it seems better in the short term, but believe me when I say that people don't change that quickly."

Steve took a deep breath. So both Natasha and Sam could see it. Steve could see it too, but…he hadn't wanted to believe it. Bucky had been smiling, he'd seemed happy, he'd been _functional_ —

Steve's mind went back to Azzano and the days following it. He could still remember finding Bucky strapped to the table, muttering his ID over and over while his glazed-over eyes stared at the ceiling without seeing. Whatever they'd done to him had messed with both his body and his mind, and he hadn't been the same afterwards.

He'd still smiled, of course, once medical cleared him. Laughed and joked and been himself most of the time, but sometimes he went quiet. Just…drifted. He'd been quicker to anger—not much, not enough to upset anyone, but enough to be noticeable. Steve had never brought up those episodes and now he found himself wondering whether Bucky had remembered Azzano when Zola found him, whether he'd kicked and struggled and yelled his identification at the people trying to erase James Buchanan Barnes from existence.

"Steve."

Natasha's voice snapped him out of those thoughts. He'd pursued that line of thinking to its bitter end countless times before but he couldn't help it. Every night he thought of a new way he'd have been able to save Bucky from that fall.

But Bucky was alive.

"Just give me until tonight," Steve eventually said. He didn't know how Bucky would react, whether he'd become violent or shut down again. That scared him, to know that he didn't know his friend. "I need a little more time."

Natasha was staring at him with something soft lining her expression—sadness? Pity?—but it was gone before Steve could really identify it.

"Don't take too long, old man," she said as she walked out. "Wouldn't want you to forget."

"How could I," Steve said after her, not sure whether his tone was joking or bitter.

* * *

 _ **Please review.**_


	16. Chapter 16

_Warning for graphic descriptions of Bucky losing his arm. And the site is doing the annoying thing where I can't see reviews again, because why not._

* * *

 **Chapter 15**

Steve tried to read about the Hundred Days but for the first time he couldn't focus on the book in his hands at all. Bucky was sprawled on the couch across from him, his eyes scanning his book with great interest. He'd already gone through two books in the time it took Steve to finish a single chapter of his, maybe because he was extremely distracting.

Bucky—the withdrawn Bucky—had sat there quietly, only made a sound when he turned the page. He hadn't moved unnecessarily. But this Bucky did everything the way Steve had expected him to do originally; he stretched out and found the most comfortable position, occasionally smirking or grinning at something he read, and shifted positions every few minutes when the last one wasn't as comfortable anymore.

Steve couldn't read like this. He set down the book, announced that he was going for a walk, and left.

* * *

By the time he returned to the house, it was dinnertime. Sam and Natasha had both texted him—worried, if the volume of messages had been any indication—and he'd explained that he just needed some air.

He had. The walk had been refreshing (cold, too, but mostly the former). The neighbors were all in their homes like sensible people on a day colder than the rest of the ones that week, so Steve had just wandered around the town. It wasn't anything like the city; the homes were spread out and snow-covered trees lined most of the roads. Woods stretched out behind some houses, and there was so much open space.

It had been quiet, too. Steve had appreciated the time to get his thoughts in order, and by the time he sat at the table and began eating his food, he was relatively sure that he could do this.

Relatively.

"I don't suppose someone made dessert," Bucky said once everyone had finished. He looked around hopefully. "No? Maybe I could try making something. Steve, remember when I made a cake for your birthday?"

Bucky had done that several times. The first one had been atrocious, the second had been stolen, and Steve didn't remember much about the rest, just that they were good. But he forced a smile. "Yeah, I remember."

Bucky frowned. "You feeling okay? You look pale."

"I'm okay."

Bucky didn't look convinced, and he was probably about to declare as much, but Steve let out a deep breath and sat up straighter, looking Bucky in the eyes in a way that made the younger man close his mouth.

"Bucky." He gathered his thoughts, feeling both Natasha's and Sam's gazes on him on top of Bucky's. "I—I want you to stop."

"Stop what?"

"This," Steve said with a vague gesture. "Your—I don't know how to say it. Impersonation of yourself. It's unhealthy and it's—" _it makes my chest ache to see you smile and every word you speak twists the knife in my heart and god Bucky I want this to be real but it can't be and I can't let this continue and I'm so sorry_ —"not going to help anyone in the long run."

Bucky's brows drew down over his eyes but he had that half-smile on his lips. "I'm…sorry? Steve, what are you trying to say?"

"I know you're acting right now and I'm asking you to stop because it hurts."

 _Be blunt,_ Sam had advised. Hard to get more blunt than that.

Bucky stared. He then sat back, still looking a little confused. His gaze went from Steve to Sam to Natasha and then back to Steve, and by the time he completed the circuit of the table, his expression had gone completely blank.

"Bucky—" Steve began.

"Why did it hurt?"

Bucky's voice was flat. He was looking at Steve with confusion but now there was accusation and something else in his tone as he leaned forward. There was no sign of the man that had been grinning and laughing not two minutes ago. "You always talk about how things were. The stories, the glances. So when I become the man I was, it hurts? Am I not supposed to recover? Is that not okay?"

"No, Buck, you're—it was the right idea, but the wrong method. Besides, we're here for you. Not for me. Recovery is on _your_ terms, not by my standards."

Bucky sat back again, abruptly, every line of his body tense. But Steve had one more question before Bucky shut down entirely.

He wanted to speak, to voice the question, but the words got stuck in his throat and he looked down, working his jaw. Seeing Bucky go from warm and vibrant to cold and blank had hurt. Hearing that he thought that what he had been doing was right just made that pain spread.

Steve couldn't meet Bucky's gaze. The iron in his stomach pulled his whole body down. He took a breath and forced the words out. "How much of it was real, Buck?"

Bucky didn't answer. Steve knit his fingers together and breathed. "How much."

"32557038."

He knew that number. Knew it like he knew his own, and Steve looked up to see Bucky looking down.

"That was my number," Bucky muttered. "Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, 32557038 I remember that. Remembered it. Said it over and over—forgot what the numbers meant. Forgot the name. Forgot the numbers, eventually. Forgot everything."

Steve couldn't feel the air in his lungs, but he guessed he was still breathing. Bucky still wasn't looking up, and his tone was barely more than flat.

"Thought that by—no. I—" he went silent.

"Buck?" Steve hazarded, not sure whether he was supposed to push or not.

"You're Steve," he eventually said. "My friend from Brooklyn, who was sick all the time and never knew when to pick his battles. I bailed you out of alley fights more times than I could count."

Part of Steve was happy, but the other part reminded him coldly that all that information was available to the public. So was Bucky's ID number. Bucky's next words rewarded the logical half.

"But I don't remember that. Not well, anyway. It's all sounds and smells and brief flashes that don't fit together in my head. I thought that by _being_ Bucky, I could get something back. I thought I could figure out why I followed you in the first place. But I don't—I still don't really understand."

Steve could do nothing else but stare.

 _That's why?_

"You can ask me about all of that," Steve said quietly. "I'd be more than happy to talk."

"Why?" Bucky looked up, his expression pained. "I'm not the Bucky that fell of the train. I don't think I'll ever be him. You're chasing after someone who's not there."

"Stop. I'm not expecting you to be that Bucky. I never did. Did I want it? Yes. God, yes. But that's my own selfishness. You're different, Buck. _I'm_ different. Part of this is going to be learning our new borders."

"You don't even care that I tried to impersonate your friend?"

"You _are_ my friend. It doesn't matter who you're acting like."

"And if I act like the Winter Soldier?"

Steve set his jaw. "I'll still be your friend."

"You're not mad."

It was hard to tell if that was a statement or a question. "No, I'm not."

Bucky abruptly stood, glaring at Steve for a solid second before he turned and strode out of the kitchen so quickly that Steve couldn't get the words out to stop him from leaving before Bucky's door slammed.

Steve waited for a minute, simply staring after the man until Natasha cleared her throat.

"I thought he was going to stab you, Rogers."

"He wouldn't."

"He had a knife. In his hand." Sam's voice was hard.

"He wouldn't," Steve repeated, getting to his feet. Bucky—Bucky was hurt. He was alone too often, and the past few days had been the only time Steve had seen him smile and even though those faces may have been fake the screams at night certainly weren't. Steve had only stopped going into Bucky's room because his presence only served to make the other man even more agitated.

"Rogers," Natasha warned, getting to her feet. Steve shook his head.

"I'm not going to leave him alone, Nat." _Not this time._

"It might be what he needs," Sam cautioned.

"It might not be."

The therapist didn't have an answer for that, so Steve went to Bucky's room.

"Buck?" He knocked softly, noting that there was no light spilling into the hallway from under the door. "Can I come in?"

He received no answer. Pressing his palm and forehead against the worn wood, Steve thought wryly of how Bucky must have felt when Steve was younger and even more stubborn.

Steve stared at the brown grains in front of his eyes. He wanted to ask Bucky to open the door, but something told him not to do that.

 _"Tell me more."_

 _Steve glanced up from his book, seeing Bucky staring at him from the other couch. "Pardon?"_

 _"The stories. I_ — _want to hear another."_

He had a lot of stories. They seemed to help Bucky, even if he'd only been using them for information. So.

"Y'know, when we were younger, we used to play hide 'n seek." Silence on the other side of the door. Steve continued regardless, speaking with a slow and measured cadence. "You liked doing it in the park, mostly 'cause I always won when we did it in our place, probably because I could fit in places you couldn't." Steve took a deep breath and then sat down with his back resting against the door. "One time, you tried to hide by climbing into a tree. Thought I wouldn't look up—you were always good at climbing. You almost looked like a king when you got to the tops and waved down at me. I admit, I was a little jealous."

Still nothing from inside the room. Steve kept talking anyway. "You fell out of the tree that day. I was nearby looking for you, and to this day I can't imagine how it happened. You just...appeared, and hit the ground. Hard. Scared the hell out of me at the time, but when I got over there, you were laughing."

Steve swallowed. "'Knew you'd find me no matter what I did', you'd said. Like I had somehow orchestrated the fall—but you said it with this huge grin on your face, like what I'd done was the most ingenious thing you'd ever heard of.

"You had bruises for the next month from that. Tried not to let me see them, though. You were always dumb like that."

Silence. Steve searched his memory for another story. Bucky's voice stopped him. It was quiet, muffled through the door, but there.

"Didn't want you to worry."

Steve kept his breathing even. "I always worry. It's my job."

Bucky said nothing more and quiet reigned for a few minutes. Steve spent that time working up his nerve.

"Can I come in, Bucky?"

He waited. If Bucky said no, Steve would leave him alone, respect his space just like Natasha and Sam had advised, even though his heart disagreed with that choice—

"Yeah. You can."

When Steve got up and opened the door, he didn't see Bucky immediately. The other man wasn't on the bed or in front of the windows. After a moment, Steve spotted him in the corner of the room, his knees drawn up to his chest and his eyes shadowed by his hair.

"I'm sorry," Steve said, approaching slowly.

"Why are you apologizing?"

"Because I hurt you."

"You didn't. I'm fine."

Bucky had always said those words in the same tone of voice—defensive, slightly reproachful, as though Steve shouldn't accuse him of being anything other than fine.

"If you think I didn't, then that's all right," Steve said, sitting a few feet away from Bucky. The room was dark, the only light filtering in from between the blinds, but it was enough to see by.

Bucky glanced up, his blue eyes meeting Steve's for a moment before he looked away. "Why are you here?" He asked roughly.

"Because I was worried about you. I didn't want to hurt you for trying, so I needed to apologize."

"Why."

"Friends don't hurt each other without apologizing."

"We're friends?"

"Buck, I will always be your friend. I'm going to stay by your side. But you have to trust me."

Bucky was shaking, ever so slightly. For a long minute, he was silent. Then he brought one hand up to his head and pressed the heel of his human palm into his eye. "Acting isn't the right answer. That's what you believe."

"Yes," Steve replied, wondering where Bucky was going with this.

"Even though I did something wrong, you're apologizing."

"That's not—"

"Yes or no."

"…Yes," Steve said, reluctant. For some reason, that answer made Bucky mutter something under his breath that didn't sound good. Steve didn't recognize the language and wasn't sure whether he was supposed to ask for a translation.

"You make no goddamn sense," Bucky said. "I don't understand."

"I'll explain if you want me to, if you tell me what you don't understand."

"I don't want that."

"Okay." Steve wanted to reach out so badly. The shadows made it hard to see exactly what Bucky's expression was, and Steve wasn't sure if seeing it would make him feel worse or better. For a while, neither of them said anything. But Bucky was the one to break the silence first.

"You said we're friends. I remember that we were friends."

"Yes. We were—we were really good friends." Did he affirm that in the present tense? Would Bucky react poorly to that? Steve didn't know. He didn't know what the right thing to say was.

"They taught me that friendship—attachment—was a weakness. I used it. In missions." _To kill people_ , Steve heard without Bucky having to say it. He pursed his lips.

"They lied to you."

Bucky laughed harshly. "Of course they did. Everyone's lied to me."

Steve didn't have a response for that. Bucky didn't seem to expect one.

"I don't want to go back to them."

"You don't have to."

"It might not be up to me. You saw what happened when they said those words. I told myself I wasn't going to do that anymore and all they had to do was say those words and it was like you had never happened at all."

"It's not your fault."

"Bullshit."

"Bucky. It wasn't. It isn't."

"Do you honestly believe that?"

"Yes." Steve willed Bucky to understand everything he'd put behind that word, but in the dark the single syllable fell short.

"You're determined to help me, aren't you?"

"Of course," Steve said. "Whatever that entails."

"Don't want to force me into anything, huh," Bucky muttered. "I'm not made of glass."

"I know."

"You know they know the whole world knows. They stripped my skin off, did you know that? Did it in strips while I screamed, then stripped off more because I made a sound. Tore the muscles off without bothering to put me under so they could get _information,_ and then removed the nerves only when I couldn't scream anymore. There's nothing in me to hide. It's all metal and muscle and bone and blood. No room for glass. Turns out I bleed as red as everyone else."

"Bucky—"

"Quiet. I'm fine. Just—give me a second."

Steve waited.

"If you're my friend," Bucky began slowly.

"I am. I always will be."

"If you're my friend," Bucky repeated in the exact same tone, "you have to promise me something,"

"I will," Steve replied instantly. He saw a flash of white, realized that Bucky was grinning. His voice was harsh in the still air as he brought one hand up to hide his face.

"Promise me, if I lose myself, if I become _him_ again, you'll put me down."

 _Grinning or grimacing?_

"Bucky—"

" _Promise me_ , Steve. I can't take this. Being him—that man—I used to be him. And I went from that to...to _this_. I can't—when I think about it—fucking hell, I can't. I can't go back to being the Soldier, the Asset, the assassin. I don't know where I am between that and Barnes but I don't trust myself to keep heading in the right direction. So promise you won't let me fall back down, that you'll stop me before I go too far."

"I can't. Bucky, I can't promise that. You know I can't. I'm with you 'till the end of the line, pal—and I'll keep saying that for as long as it takes. I won't give up even if I have to bring the world down to wake you up. You're my friend and I'd do anything for you."

"Idiot," Bucky said, lowering his hand and meeting Steve's gaze. "I'm talking about when you can't bring me back. When I've done something absolutely unforgivable. When I reach the end."

"I'll stop you before you do."

"How."

Steve leaned forward as much as he dared and looked Bucky right in the eye. "Trust me, Buck. Trust me to pull you back up if you fall."

He could see Bucky about to refute his words. He could see Bucky's throat bobbing, his jaw clenching and unclenching. But before he said anything, Steve reached out and gently put one hand on Bucky's shoulder. Bucky stiffened for a moment, and then relaxed. Taking that as a signal, Steve slowly pulled Bucky into a hug. He was careful to use only one hand, to do it so that Bucky could easily pull away if he wanted to. Bucky remained tense, but he didn't lash out.

"I'm always here," Steve murmured. "Always."

Bucky let out a shaky breath and then he wrapped both arms over Steve's shoulders and yanked him closer. Steve held him for as long as it took Bucky's arms to stop trembling, and then he just listened to his friend's breathing for a while. It evened out soon enough, and Steve realized that Bucky must have been getting about the same amount as Steve had the last few nights.

Steve's eyes caught a flash of reflected light and only then did he see the knife hidden under Bucky's legs. Steve carefully pulled it away, keeping it close enough that Bucky would find it if he panicked.

The bed was too far away. Steve reached out as carefully as he could manage with Bucky leaning on him and snagged the comforter, gingerly pulling it over until he could drape it over he and Bucky both.

Sam and Natasha soon appeared in the doorway (how long had they been waiting for Steve and Bucky to stop talking?), but Steve shook his head silently and they left, closing the door softly as they did so.

Steve let out a deep breath and reached up, running one hand through Bucky's hair. He hadn't been this close to Bucky since they were in the army, and even then their uniforms had forced them to keep distance that hadn't existed when they were trying to share body heat in the New York winter.

(When Bucky had been trying to calm Steve's shaking, had been trying to shield Steve's body from the air as though he could stop his illness.)

Steve found himself quietly talking about their youngest years. He wasn't sure whether Bucky was truly asleep, but recalling the times when they'd snuck into the movies, climbed to the tops of buildings, and watched the ships pull into the harbor helped Steve focus on the fact that Bucky was going to be okay.

At some point, his eyelids were too heavy to keep open, and Steve drifted off into sleep.

* * *

 _ **Please review.**_


	17. Chapter 17

_#vagueGreatGatsbyreferences_

* * *

 **Chapter 16**

When Bucky opened his eyes, it took him several seconds to identify where he was. There was something heavy draped over him—a body. A man. Alive, too. Bucky could feel his heartbeat. A blanket and the man's positioning prevented him from seeing more than the man's back and shoulders.

 _Steve._

Bucky frowned, blinking as he tried to recall how he'd gotten there. He was in his room, the blinds drawn (though now sunlight was pouring through them, which didn't match Bucky's most recent memories) and the door closed. His bed was missing its biggest blanket. That had to be what was covering him and Steve.

He reached out automatically, fingers searching for the knife he knew he'd had. Just before he began to panic, his left hand found the grip and he pulled the knife closer, examining the silver blade for a second before he slipped it into the hidden sheath on his leg, the movement made only slightly awkward by the blanket.

Steve mumbled something in his sleep and shifted, making Bucky tense.

Steve was a grabber. Bucky had forgotten that.

And then he froze.

He'd forgotten. And he'd just remembered.

(What had happened last night? He couldn't—)

 _"I'm with you 'till the end of the line, pal—and I'll keep saying that for as long as it takes. I won't give up even if I have to bring the world down to wake you up. You're my friend and I'd do anything for you."_

Bucky barely stopped his left hand from clenching and tearing the blanket. He forced himself to breathe, remembering the exercises Sam had taught him several days ago. He counted in his head, thinking about calming his heartbeat until he was sure he was back to normal levels.

The cover of James Buchanan Barnes had broken up like glass against the wall of the Winter Soldier. Steve hadn't—

He hadn't wanted Bucky to pretend. He'd never expected Bucky to be exactly how he was. He—

Bucky had hugged him. Willingly. Raising his hands, Bucky stared at the limbs with confusion. Why? Why had he done that?

 _Because Steve's my friend and he was crying._

The thought came and Bucky waited for it to go like all the rest, but it lingered.

How long had he been playing at being James? A day? Three? He'd immersed himself so fully in the role, he hadn't even been paying attention to how much time had passed.

 _How much of it was fake?_

He flexed his fingers, trying to anchor himself to the present by watching the sunlight dance on the metal plates. When he was—faking? Was that the right word?—James, things had come out of his mouth before Bucky had paused to consider them. And he'd said things Bucky hadn't known he would say, done things Bucky hadn't expected, things that Bucky didn't realize were _Bucky_ things until he saw the smile on Steve's face.

The cakes. Where had they come from? There was no information in the museum or online about cakes. But Bucky could remember icing—could remember dropping by the store and begging for the supplies, could remember the fear and proud shame when he presented his first attempt at baking to Steve, could remember Steve's laugh when he saw the atrocity—

Steve had laughed, and Bucky had laughed with him.

He remembered that.

That was real.

That had happened.

He was remembering things. Further evidence that what HYDRA had done had to be wrong, because Bucky was happy in that memory, and how would taking that happiness away make the world better?

Bucky didn't feel right. He realized that he'd gone back to holding Steve, the position familiar and comforting. There was an ache in his chest, but he didn't remember being wounded. It felt as though someone had scooped out his lungs, but without the pain.

Steve stirred again and Bucky swallowed the feeling.

(Steve hadn't punished him. Bucky had lied and deceived him and Steve hadn't punished him it made no sense but Steve was Bucky's friend and did that mean no punishment but why would it?)

"Buck? You awake already?" Steve mumbled, sitting up. Bucky almost missed the warmth pressing against him, because when Steve pulled away the ache in his chest increased.

Steve was probably expecting a response. But the question he'd asked had an obviously visible answer. So Bucky rolled his eyes, an expression he'd seen Natasha do when Sam or Steve did something that was redundant or unnecessary. It was a familiar motion.

"Yes, I'm awake."

Steve got to his feet and stretched, the blanket falling to the floor. Bucky saw that as a waste and got up as well, throwing the blanket back onto the bed where it belonged.

(How had it gotten on top of he and Steve?)

"Buck, are you okay?"

Steve was looking at him. "Yeah. I'm fine."

Why was Steve sighing? "You're using that tone."

 _Tone?_

"What tone?"

"The 'I'm saying I'm fine but I'm not fine' tone. You can be a terrible liar sometimes."

"I'm not lying."

Steve gave him an unconvinced look but didn't push the subject, which Bucky appreciated. "In any case, did you sleep well?"

"Fine."

Bucky heard Steve mutter something under his breath, but it was too indistinct to understand. He could guess what it was, and a slight grin tugged at his lips.

"I thought you were supposed to be a morning person, Steve."

"When I get consistent sleep, sure. Don't sound so smug—I was the one that had to drag your ass out of bed when we were switching watches."

Bucky felt echoes of irritation and his grin widened. The expression was alien but it felt good. "Can't blame a guy for wanting to sleep."

"Sure I can."

Steve gave Bucky another look, and this one was even harder to interpret. Bucky waited, wondering what Steve was going to say. But the blond man just shook his head, muttering about coffee and breakfast.

By the time Bucky made it to the kitchen, everyone else in the house was awake. They only gave him cursory glances as he walked over to the pantry. He didn't feel their gazes on his back as he prepared a bowl of cereal and fruit, the familiarity of the task making it easier to hide the slight trembling of his fingers.

He ate and listened with half an ear as Sam and Steve talked about meaningless things. Natasha occasionally put in commentary. The sheer normalcy of the conversation helped to ease Bucky's worries; they weren't mad. They weren't going to punish him for lying.

(But he'd still refused orders. He was still going against orders. Where was that punishment? Why wasn't it coming?)

He finished the last of his cereal.

( _Was_ there punishment coming?)

"So, Barnes," Natasha said, abruptly dragging Bucky back to the present. "How do you feel about going grocery shopping?"

Bucky automatically looked to Steve. Was he allowed to leave? They'd never said he couldn't but—

"It's your choice," Steve told him.

 _Big help, buddy._

Well, he could buy a second to think. "My name is Bucky."

Natasha raised one eyebrow. "Do you not want me to call you Barnes?"

He started to look to Steve but stopped himself. "If you want to call me Barnes, that's…fine. It's just that people usually go with Bucky."

Steve's smile practically lit up the room. Sam looked almost proud for reasons Bucky didn't understand.

"And the groceries? Steve has a list of stuff you might want to try, so we figured I could take you with me."

"I don't know what I like."

"All the more reason to check," Natasha returned evenly.

Bucky licked his lips. He was still hungry, but the prospect of going out left him feeling uneasy. In the time he'd been on the run from SHIELD, he'd limited his amount of time in the public. The idea of talking with people was—

Intimidating?

"I can do the talking," Natasha offered.

"It wouldn't hurt to see people other than us," Sam pointed out. "You've been cooped up in here for almost two weeks."

Had it been that long?

 _Do it._

Oh, what the hell.

"Yeah, I'll go." He smiled a little to ease the worry in Steve's eyes. "Are the snacks any better in the future?"

Steve smiled even wider, and Bucky knew he'd made the right choice.

* * *

 _ **Please review.**_


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 17**

The store was unexpectedly quiet. Soft music drifted down from speakers in the ceiling and Bucky occasionally caught conversation between some of the people present, but with only seven shoppers, two people restocking, and three cashiers (Bucky counted), there wasn't any of the hubbub Bucky had been anticipating.

Natasha had reached for a basket at first and then, after a considerate glance at Bucky, went for a cart instead. She pushed it without complaint, though Bucky spent the first two aisles silently wondering if he should be pushing considering that Natasha was the one who actually knew what she was doing in the store.

"I can handle two things at once, Barnes," Natasha had said after aisle two, so Bucky had let the matter go.

The bright packaging was distracting. Everything was apparently some kind of superfood; drinks were meant to _hydrate_ and _quench your thirst_ , instead of just…being refreshing and necessary. Protein bars were _recovery tools_ and _protein bombs._ Not to mention the frozen foods—someone had decided that frozen pizza was not enough. No, they had to make the pizza smaller, stuff it inside itself, and call the result "rolls".

What the hell.

By the time they were back at the car (a decent crossover, old enough to avoid excessive attention), Bucky and Natasha (really only Natasha) had only had to talk to three people: the old woman who didn't know where the soup section was, the bagger, and the cashier.

Bucky felt rather accomplished when they made it back to the house, and he helped Natasha carry the groceries inside with a satisfied feeling in his chest.

He'd completed the mission to the grocery store. No one had been attacked.

"Oreos, Natasha?" Sam asked as he walked into the kitchen and began to help.

"Of course. Before you ask, they're double stuf."

"I always knew your head was in the right place."

Bucky let their conversation wash over him as he put the milk, eggs, and other foodstuffs in their proper places. The repetitive action was soothing, and his heartbeat quickly returned to normal. It had been elevated since leaving the house; after the incident on the road that had started the whole mess, Bucky had been expecting a surprise attack the moment he left the house.

(They had to know that he had disobeyed orders by now. Right?)

But there had been no darts.

"Where's Steve?" Bucky found himself asking.

"Here," Steve called from the living room. Bucky glanced into the large space and saw Steve stretching on a mat he must have gotten while Bucky was unawares. Seeing Bucky's inquisitive glance, Steve straightened. "Running can only do so much," he explained.

Bucky wasn't sure what to make of that explanation; Steve was a super soldier, made into the man he was by a serum. His body wouldn't require constant exercise in order to maintain its optimal muscle and fat ratio. But Steve seemed to be enjoying himself, so Bucky would wait to mention the pointlessness of Steve's actions until it appeared that it could pose a threat to Steve's health.

"Okay," Bucky said, largely because he felt that he was supposed to say something.

"You can join me, if you want," Steve offered. "There's a spare mat. It feels really good to stretch."

"I'll think about it," Bucky said automatically. He wondered why he didn't just say _no_ , but the dodgy response had come out before Bucky could think about it.

Steve raised an eyebrow and Bucky got the impression that he knew exactly what the phrase implied. Bucky retreated before Steve could call him out on the lie.

Maybe he could run with Steve as a way to make up for it. That would be acceptable. The fresh air had felt nice when he had gone to and from the car; no doubt a run would have a similar effect. Running would require even less thought than stretching.

* * *

He'd been right: running did make him feel better. After Natasha had gone out and gotten him clothes better suited for the cold and the exercise (she'd bemoaned his wardrobe first, for whatever reason), he had joined Sam and Steve on their morning runs.

Steve ran quickly. Sam did not.

So Bucky ran with Steve. The rhythmic pounding of feet on pavement and the sharp edge of the air in his lungs woke Bucky up better than the variety of breakfast foods the house was now stocked with.

After four laps, he noticed Steve's habit of lapping Sam while saying "On your left". Sam would temporarily increase his speed, often while yelling a few good-natured insults, as a result. It made both Steve and Sam smile, and Bucky realized that it was a ritual of theirs.

Well.

The next time he and Steve passed Sam, Bucky split off to go on Sam's right. Right as Steve said, "On your left", Bucky called, "On your right".

"Really?" Sam gasped after them. Steve was chuckling between breaths.

"Nice job, Bucky," he said with a pleased smile on his face. Bucky grinned in response.

He'd done the right thing. And Sam's reaction was funny.

He did it again the next time, and the next. Sam found it less and less funny each time.

When they finished the run, Sam was gasping for air, waving one hand in defeat.

"You win," he groaned. "Damned super soldiers. I didn't need two of you."

"We're both over ninety," Steve pointed out. Sam gave him a baleful look, his breath clouding in the cold air.

"Damned. Super. Soldiers."

Bucky laughed.

"Oh, are you new around here?"

Bucky's laugh died in his throat and he whipped around, seeing an older woman standing in the driveway next to theirs. She was bundled against the cold, he hadn't heard her coming so _threat_ but her smile was kind and—

 _Soft hands, wiping away the blood from his cheek and a gentle voice admonishing him for fighting and the_ need _to protect, to help, and this is his—_

What.

 _Not a threat_ , Bucky identified after a second, and he forced himself to relax. The metal arm clicked as it went back into noncombat settings. At least the warm clothes covered up the limb.

"He's my cousin," Steve explained smoothly. "He just came back from a tour. Mrs. Hurowski, meet James. James, Mrs. Hurowski, our neighbor."

The one with the light on her porch, Bucky recalled. He waved. "It's nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you too, James." She switched her gaze to Sam with a raised eyebrow. "You've got quite a party going on in that home of yours."

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you the half of it," Sam replied.

"I'm sure." She shook her head, a rueful grin on her face. "Well, I only came out to get the paper. Excuse me."

Bucky stared after the woman for a moment, and then turned back towards the house.

He wanted a bath. And food.

* * *

Steve wasn't reading. Bucky glanced up from his book (the Great Depression was…depressing. And a little too real) and raised an eyebrow when he saw the pencil and sketchbook.

Flashes—Steve (younger, smaller) drawing buildings, drawing Bucky, drawing trees, drawing anything that caught his eye—

"What are you doing?" Bucky asked.

"Drawing."

 _No shit._

Bucky said as much. Steve's hand twitched, leading to a quiet curse from Steve, and Bucky realized he could technically be to blame for that. But Steve didn't look all that angry.

"Were you asking what I was drawing?"

"Sure."

"Give me five more minutes of you sitting still, and then I'll show you. Okay?"

Suspicious. Highly suspicious.

 _"Hold still, Buck. I can't draw you when you keep getting up."_

 _"C'mon, pal, I'm hungry. You know I can't sit still when I'm hungry."_

Bucky returned his attention to the words on the page and tried to absorb information about the AAA until acronyms were dancing circles around his eyes. It was almost a relief when Steve shifted and announced he was done.

A strange feeling welled up in Bucky as Steve flipped over his sketchbook and held it out for Bucky to see.

Anticipation? Was that the feeling?

Steve had drawn him, of course. Bucky scrutinized the proportions, drawing on the knowledge of his own body he'd gained over the past few weeks (HYDRA hadn't been big on mirrors. Or razors, for that matter.) Proportionally speaking, the drawing was good. Not perfect, but good. Very good.

The face. Steve had drawn Bucky looking down at the book with a wistful expression, his gaze softer than Bucky knew his own to be. Seeing that image tightened the knot in Bucky's heart, but not in a particularly painful way. He reached out and traced the shape of the metal arm, seeing the way Steve had drawn the light reflecting off of it.

"Can I…keep it?" Bucky asked. He wanted to keep looking at it. Steve had drawn him—not the Past Bucky, but _him_.

He didn't look anything like the Soldier. He looked calm and peaceful and _alive_.

"Of course, Buck," Steve said, gently tearing the page out of the sketchbook and handing it over. "So long as you let me draw you again."

"I'd like that."

* * *

"You don't have to talk if you don't want to."

As a matter of fact, Bucky didn't want to talk. He was content to sit in silence while he methodically cleaned his weapon. At first, Sam had tried to discourage holding onto the weapon when they were supposed to be having a therapy session—whatever the hell that was—but Bucky had insisted. And, for some reason, Sam had caved.

Unexpected.

The silence carried on. Sam was examining Bucky, and he wasn't being subtle about it. Bucky ignored him and wiped down the action of his pistol with a dry cloth.

"If we're not going to talk, then we can come up with a few things to do just in case you get the worst case scenario. Is that okay?"

Bucky reached for the lubricant. "Sure."

Sam spent the next few minutes teaching Bucky breathing and muscle exercises designed to calm him down. Bucky already knew several of them—he needed to regulate his breathing before particularly long-distance shots, and stealth required control—but there were a few he didn't. He finished cleaning his pistol in the meantime and set about putting it back together.

"Also, I would recommend grounding yourself if you feel upset or unbalanced," Sam was saying. Bucky flicked on the gun's safety and glanced at Sam with a raised eyebrow.

"I'm always unbalanced." That was the whole reason he was in this room. But Sam shook his head.

"No, you're not. All of us here can attest to that."

He asked Bucky to repeat after him. Bucky did.

 _My name is James Buchanan Barnes._ _I was born in Brooklyn in 1917._ _Steve is my friend. The year is 2015 and I am 98 years old._

Sam nodded, pleased. Bucky had a simpler way, a string of numbers that rang familiar in his head:

 _32557038._

But he said that one silently.

* * *

His knuckles stung. Not on his left hand—he hardly felt the impacts of his fists against Steve's blockers on that hand—but his right. It wasn't exactly pain, but more of an echo of pain with each light impact.

Bone. He was remembering his fist smashing into Steve's face.

 _"You. Are. My. Mission!"_

His next punch hit a little hard and Steve raised one eyebrow. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," Bucky replied. _Have a little faith, Rogers._

All they were doing was very simple sparring. It didn't even truly count as sparring to Bucky; Steve had those blockers on his hands and Bucky was alternating his strikes between them, never using his full strength and doing it in a rhythmic pattern. It wasn't meant to be difficult.

Sam had expressly forbidden any serious sparring on Bucky's part until they were a little more confident about his ability to maintain control in a stressful situation (they kept asking him about the knives. Why were they so concerned about his knives? His knives were his own damned business, thank you very much.)

But Bucky was allowed to watch everyone else spar, and do this exercise with Steve. Steve, at the very least, seemed to be enjoying himself.

 _Left. Right. Right. Left._

He had to pull his punches significantly on his left side. The plates in his metal arm tightened automatically when he punched, converting the limb into a solid object that delivered an incredible amount of force when needed. It took more control than Bucky was expecting to…practice. And not injure.

But it felt nice, and the repetitive motions calmed his mind. Punching Steve—his hands, blockers, whatever—didn't seem to be triggering the voice. He didn't feel entirely comfortable, but it wasn't overwhelming.

He could do this. He _would_ do this.

* * *

It turned out that punching without injuring wasn't the hardest thing Bucky tried to do.

No, that honor went to knitting. It was supposed to calm him down, and Bucky could see how it would do that; it was repetitive and he was being productive by making his own clothing.

But.

Fucking yarn. And Steve had the gall to say that Bucky used to be good at it, or at least good enough to make socks and mittens for the winter.

 _I used to have two human hands, pal._

At least he couldn't stab the metal fingers with anything. But the movements needed to make the stitches were beyond Bucky even when long-buried muscle memory tried to salvage the scarf. He simply couldn't do it, and he didn't feel inclined to put in the effort to learn again.

The scarf was beyond saving. Bucky gave it to Steve and advised that he burn it.

They didn't try to get him to knit again after that. Bucky contented himself with reading and watching Steve knit out of the corner of his eye. That he could do, and he did it gladly.

* * *

 _ **Please review.**_


	19. Chapter 19

_In other news, I am a terrible person._

* * *

 **Chapter 18**

Bucky stared out the large windows in the living room, watching as the fat snowflakes drifted down into the light spilling from within the room. He felt…good.

Really, really good.

Steve was asleep. Both Sam and Natasha had left, the former to get something sorted out and the latter for reasons unknown that Bucky could probably guess at. Sam was supposed to be back in a few days, and Bucky didn't know about Natasha. But the amount of trust they'd put in him—leaving him alone with Steve after over four weeks of observation and gradual recovery—left Bucky feeling almost dizzy.

It was part of the reason he couldn't sleep. The rest came from unrest and a general sense that things were going too well.

And his bed was too soft.

(Priorities, Barnes. Priorities.)

His eyes roved past the yard and over to Mrs. Hurowski's house. The porch light was on.

It had been on the previous night, too. And the one before that if Bucky's memory served. Usually it went off at some point during the night. Bucky saw it on the nights when he got no sleep at all.

Waves of tension rippled across Bucky's shoulders. He didn't even need the Winter Soldier's experience to know that something was definitely wrong. Even if it was merely a teenager being stupid, it warranted checking out.

The light never went off that night.

* * *

When he went running with Steve the next morning, Bucky made sure to stop at Mrs. Hurowski's house at the end. Steve gave him a confused look as Bucky jogged up to the woman's front door and rang the bell. Bucky debated explaining the entire situation, but it would take too long—and Mrs. Hurowski was already opening the door.

"Ah, James!" She greeted with a smile.

"Hello," Bucky greeted.

 _Face pale_ , he noted. _Smile strained. Bags under eyes and hunched posture._

Ha.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" She asked, seemingly unaffected by the cold streaming in from her open door. Bucky could respect that.

"I've noticed that you've been leaving your porch light on lately," Bucky said. "Is something the matter?"

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry. Is it too bright from your house? I wouldn't want to keep you up."

"No need to worry about that." _I don't sleep much._ "If anything, I should apologize for being nosy." He gave her a smile—one of the James smiles, the one he just knew ingratiated him to people like no other.

"Don't be ridiculous. Here, you two can step in. Heaven knows it's cold out there."

"I wouldn't want to—"

"Shut your yap and get in here."

Bucky and Steve complied while exchanging mutual grins. This kind of behavior was something they were both well acquainted with.

They remained just inside the door, resolutely refusing to go farther in. Common courtesy only extended so far, and Bucky knew for a fact that pushing Mrs. Hurowski's generosity would be rude.

"I appreciate your worry," Mrs. Hurowski said. Bucky noted that, despite her hunched posture, she spoke clearly and looked both he and Steve in the eye. Impressive, considering he and Steve were both taller than her by a significant margin. "My son—Jordan—tends to stay out fairly late, so I leave the light on for him."

"Has he been coming home much later than normal?" Steve asked with a frown. Bucky glanced at him, saw the way his eyebrows had come down.

 _Oh, Steve. You're so predictable._

"Well…he…" Mrs. Hurowski pursed her lips. "He hasn't been coming home at all. This isn't the first time, though, so I'm not too worried."

 _Liar._

"He'll be home within the next few days."

 _Liar. You don't know._

"If you don't mind my asking, when was the last time he went missing?" Bucky asked. "My sister used to go out all the time. Call it personal experience." He smiled again, ignoring Steve's slightly reproachful look for the blatant lie. It got Mrs. Hurowski to relax a little.

"Oh, a few months ago. He told me he wasn't going to do it again, but he's young. You know how teenagers can be these days."

 _Not at all._

"Of course," Bucky said. Mrs. Hurowski didn't look like she believed her own words, which was concerning. She hadn't expected Jordan to be missing for this long.

He didn't even have to look at Steve to know that he had tensed.

Enemies. Possibly HYDRA. Possibly just a kidnapper. Either way, not the kind of person Bucky wanted nearby when he was supposed to be lying low.

They were the kind of person Bucky wanted gone.

Bucky left the rest of the conversing to Steve, who had picked up on the reason for Bucky's visit. While Steve talked, Bucky swept his gaze over what little of the Hurowski household he could see in case there were any obvious signs of observation.

Everything was relatively neat; there weren't that many dishes in the section of the sink Bucky could see, and the shoes and boots were neatly placed on a mat by the front door. The coats and hats were hung in the partly open closet, seemingly organized by their owners. Jordan was evidently taller than his mother.

And he lacked her taste.

Ugh. Even Steve would be offended if he saw anyone wearing that shade of yellow in public.

But why would the teenager be a target?

Bucky shoved that thought away for now. Jordan had gone missing three days ago. In this weather, he would need warm clothes, and there were some that appeared to be missing from the closet. That meant he had gone out knowing he would be gone for long enough to warrant a jacket.

Well then.

* * *

Bucky hadn't realized that they had an armory in the basement. It made sense when he thought about it; most of his weapons and gear had been missing since day one of this arrangement, and he hadn't stumbled across them while looking around.

He'd missed the weight of the tactical vest. He'd missed his p220 and Mark IIs even more. There was something so…fulfilling about having a clear purpose.

Find the kid, take out whoever had decided it was smart to kidnap someone with Captain America and—

 _The Winter Soldier? Sergeant Barnes?_

—with Captain America around.

 _32557241._

Steve said nothing as they suited up. Bucky didn't expect him to, and he strapped weapons and ammunition onto himself with mechanical precision. Everything had its proper place. He knew this equipment like the back of his hand.

 _32557241._

He didn't bother to ask where Steve had gotten all of these things, or why he had them. They were living with a superspy and guy that flew around on mechanical wings; an emergency armory in the basement wasn't too big a stretch.

Steve finally cleared his throat.

"Are you going to be all right?"

Bucky paused ( _32557241)_ while loading the M4A1 rifle he'd picked up on instinct upon recognizing the weapon. Then he slammed the magazine into place. It produced a satisfying click and he flipped the weapon, sliding it onto the holster on his back. "I will be."

* * *

 _ **Please review.**_


	20. Chapter 20

_Clarification: When I said I'm a terrible person, I was referring to a future chapter. Which chapter, I won't say._

* * *

 **Chapter 19**

"I've already notified Sam and Natasha," Steve said carefully as they drove around. "Sam…recommended that you not do anything too stressful."

Bucky's lips turned up at the corners. It wasn't a smile. It wasn't a nice expression at all. Steve forced his eyes back to the road. "He can try to stop me."

In fact, Sam had strongly advised that Bucky not get involved in the slightest. If the enemies turned out to be HYDRA, Bucky risked a relapse—a risk that ran far higher if one of the potential HYDRA lackeys somehow knew the words. But Steve couldn't tell Bucky to stay behind. He just couldn't.

It was very hard to say no to Bucky, especially when he was packing more weaponry than most tanks.

"So…"

Bucky glanced Steve's way with a raised eyebrow. "What?"

"Do you have any idea where this kid is supposed to be?"

Steve felt a little gratified when he saw Bucky's taken aback expression. With the way Bucky had been glaring at the road, Steve had been worried that he was...slipping, for lack of a better way to phrase it in his head. "I thought you did."

And that just reminded Steve of all the schemes he and Bucky had done when they were younger. Bucky had said those words so many times Steve had started coming up with backup plans on the fly.

Bucky frowned at Steve's silence and then began muttering under his breath. While he pulled out his phone and began tapping away at the screen, Steve pulled into the local gas station. It was easy to grab one of the coats from the back seat and cover up his suit, and a winter hat did the rest.

Cold weather was nice sometimes.

He strolled into the gas station, leaving Bucky to his work, and approached the counter. "Hello," he greeted. The teenager behind the counter, a young man sporting two piercings on one ear and short hair, glanced up.

"Hi."

Steve wondered about professional courtesy, and then recalled that this was a gas station in a remote area staffed by a young man that would probably prefer to be doing other things. He and Bucky had certainly had their fair share of poor job positions. He smiled instead.

"I'm looking for a young man by the name of Jordan. His mom sent me, but apparently he left the house. I was wondering if he passed through here."

To the teenager's credit, he was immediately suspicious. "Who sent you?"

"Mrs. Hurowski. Brown hair, has a habit of speaking formally until she gets annoyed? Does that ring a bell?"

The young man—Alex, according to his name tag—frowned. But Steve's slightly more personal description did the trick and he lost the suspicion in his eyes. "Is something wrong?"

"That's why I'm here. Have you seen Jordan?"

"Uh…no, not recently. We're—kind of?—friends, I guess."

"When and where did you last see him?"

"Are you a cop?"

"No."

"…sure. Well, whatever. He's missing…uh, the last time, he went to the warehouse on Main Street. We made it into this sweet hideout."

"On Main Street?" Steve questioned. That seemed like far too obvious a location.

"There's—is he actually missing again?"

"Yes."

Alex scrubbed a hand through his hair. "Fuckin' idiot. Told him not to do that again. And he said he wouldn't. There's no way he went back there."

"Alex—"

"There's an entrance in the back. Covered by a dumpster and some plywood." He waved a hand, looking very tired. "If he's not in there, I don't know where he went."

It was something. Steve hadn't been expecting so much information and so his next words were very genuine. "Thank you."

"Yeah. When you find him, punch him for me, please."

"No promises," Steve threw over his shoulder. He slid back into the car. Bucky was staring out the windshield, the muscles in his jaw tensing and loosening. "Buck?"

"Jordan is an idiot," Bucky finally said. Before Steve could respond, he launched into a list. "Skipped most of his senior year of high school and barely graduated. Moved out and then moved back in. Driver's license revoked. Arrested for DUI and possession of illegal substances. Several hospital visits for combat-related injuries—and he was probably on the losing end. He's lost more jobs than I have fingers. Metal and human."

Steve blinked. That was…impressive. Impressively bad. "Wow."

"Yeah, wow. Puts us as kids to shame."

Steve was agreeing before he fully registered what Bucky had said, and he couldn't stop the flare of happiness in his gut. But he suppressed the smile, because Sam had warned him that putting too much weight on Bucky's memories or "Bucky" behaviors would lead to Bucky feeling stifled and pressured.

"What did you find?" Bucky asked, glancing at Steve.

"Potential hideout," Steve replied. "We're going to a warehouse on Main Street—there's a hidden entrance in the back, behind a dumpster. I don't know if we'll find anything, but it's better than nothing."

* * *

The most awkward part of the drive to the warehouse came when the police officer drove at the exact same speed as Steve for a good two blocks. Bucky had shrunk down in his seat automatically, folding up his posture until he looked like the typical asleep passenger. Steve just kept driving at the speed limit. After four more houses, the cop took a right and disappeared down a side street.

"He was definitely waiting for you to speed up," Bucky muttered, sitting up again.

"Well, I didn't."

No more cops appeared and Steve pulled into the dilapidated area behind the warehouse. As he stepped out of the car, Steve realized why Alex and Jordan set up base there: the design of the warehouse made the back completely invisible from Main Street.

"Steve," Bucky muttered, jerking his chin in the direction of the only dumpster. He already had his rifle in hand. And then Steve realized why: there was no snow on the dumpster or the area around it. In fact, nearly all of the snow that should have been on the ground from the recent snowfall was simply not there.

No snow meant two things: someone had cared enough to clean it, and Steve and Bucky couldn't use tracks to see who'd been coming and going from the building.

Steve hefted his shield and nodded at Bucky.

They approached slowly. At Steve's signal, Bucky yanked the dumpster to one side while Steve waited with his shield up and ready to deflect any surprise attacks.

None came.

Steve moved the plywood while Bucky made sure they didn't have any company.

When Steve stepped inside, he was struck by how empty the building was. It had been stripped down to its frame, and it wasn't any warmer inside than outside.

"This used to be an industrial town," Bucky muttered while he searched their surroundings for any threats, his voice barely loud enough to carry to Steve's ear even with the comm. units they'd grabbed.

"What happened?"

"Industry moved."

They both heard the sound at the same time: a quiet moan, hardly more than the sound of the wind coming through the broken windows. Steve started walking, just knowing that Bucky would fall into step. His footsteps echoed on the concrete floor no matter what he did to soften them, but the groaning gradually got louder.

Steve rounded the last bend in the building and saw a chair in the middle of the vast room. There was a young man tied to the chair.

"This could be a trap," Bucky murmured, lowering his gun when it became clear that there were no hostiles.

Steve was well aware of that, and he was careful as he strode forward. "This is Jordan," he said.

"Trap," Bucky repeated.

"Then keep your eyes peeled."

Jordan's head was lolling, his eyes open but unfocused as he stared in the direction of the ceiling. He wasn't wearing anything but a shirt and pants, and his dark hair was matted with blood. More wounds decorated his skin, and his fingertips and toes were an unhealthy shade of blue.

"Son of a bitch," Steve growled under his breath, slipping his shield onto his back and bending down to undo the restraints. Above him, a heat lamp flickered on and off.

"Cold…" Jordan mumbled almost inaudibly. He groaned again and nearly folded in on himself when Steve undid the tie on his wrist. Steve caught him.

"You're gonna be okay. Stay with me, Jordan. Focus on my voice."

"Steve?" Bucky had holstered his rifle but looked unsure as to whether he was supposed to approach or not.

"Hypothermia," Steve said flatly while he repositioned Jordan and began undoing the other ropes. "Among other things. He needs to go a hospital."

"Snakes…lozza…snakes…" Jordan giggled while he slurred out words between blue lips. "Gonna bite me…lozza…cold."

"Jordan, who put you here?" Steve asked while he hoisted the kid into a bridal-style carry and tried to rub feeling back into his arms. Jordan giggled again, his eyes still not focusing on Steve. He knew he wasn't going to get an answer; the kid was down and out. But, to Steve's surprise, Jordan responded.

"Snakes. Hiss, hiss." Jordan blinked slowly. His body was past the point of being able to shake. "Cold."

"They left him here to freeze to death?" Bucky asked when Steve turned around with Jordan in his arms. His hands were balled into fists. Steve's lips thinned but he nodded.

"W-wait," Jordan slurred, his arm flopping. "You gotta—you gotta…"

"Stay quiet, kid," Steve said tightly. "We're going to get you someplace warm."

"'m. Mom—they're gonna…were gonna…gotta go—"

"He's delirious," Bucky noted flatly. Jordan's pupils nearly blocked out his irises entirely. Steve bit his tongue upon noticing that; he wouldn't put it past HYDRA to give him something to last even longer in the cold. "Steve, he might not—"

"Don't, Bucky. He's going to be fine."

Bucky stood for a second, spat a foreign curse, and then marched away. Steve began to follow but paused when he heard the sound of something breaking and then shattering against the floor. Adjusting Jordan—who kept moving just enough to be awkward—Steve went around the corner.

Bucky was standing by a concrete pillar. Part of the pillar's corner was missing, and Steve quickly located it in pieces on the floor.

"Bucky?"

"Just give me a second," Bucky growled. He breathed for a second and Steve stamped down on the guilt he felt for taking Bucky.

(It would've been worse if Bucky had been forced to stay behind. But Steve still didn't feel any better.)

"It was HYDRA," Bucky said when he faced Steve again. His expression was carefully composed, but rage danced in his eyes. "It had to be. They must have tracked me down—"

"Tracked _us_ down."

"—and used this kid as…as bait, or something. Fuck. I should've known. Things were going too well for me, and this—fuck. Fuck. Блядь, это пиздец."

Steve's lips thinned in response to the Russian and he didn't like the way Bucky was taking on the blame himself. "This isn't your fault."

"Then whose is it?" Bucky snapped. "If I wasn't here, would this have happened?"

"Don't start thinking like that," Steve warned. "We'll talk this out more when there isn't a person freezing to death in my arms, okay?"

Bucky flexed his fingers for a few seconds before he blew out a breath and nodded. Steve could see the tension draining from him, could see Bucky forcing himself to calm down. "Yeah, fine, okay. I—yeah."

Steve caught the cell phone Bucky tossed his way and dialed 911 with one hand while doing his best to carry Jordan with the other. Bucky didn't wait a moment and took Jordan from Steve's hands, careful to keep his metal arm away from Jordan's exposed skin. "Stop trying to multitask when I'm right here, Rogers."

Steve frowned at him but then the operator picked up and he had to divert his attention elsewhere.

While Steve gave the address of the building a block away, Bucky transported Jordan there and dropped him off out of sight of security cameras. By the time emergency services arrived, Bucky and Steve had relocated to an old shed on one end of the warehouse parking lot with an excellent view of the back entrance.

"We're waiting for Sam and Nat," Steve said quietly once they were situated. Bucky said nothing. Steve knew exactly what that silence meant: _I heard you but I'm not listening_. "Bucky."

"I heard you."

" _Bucky_."

He tensed. Steve sighed. "We can't go charging in alone. It would give us a tactical advantage to wait—"

"I'm not waiting. I can't."

"B—"

"Let me do this."

He didn't even make eye contact, but Steve felt the words like a punch to the gut. Bucky hadn't said please but Steve had heard it loud and clear. Just like that, he was back in Brooklyn and Bucky was standing next to him, looking wistfully at the skyline, saying, _I'm gonna fight_ like it wasn't the biggest betrayal Steve had ever felt.

Steve had wanted to enlist and couldn't. Bucky had. And he'd said—

 _"Let me do this. If not for myself, then for you. I'll fight where you can't, Steve. I'll put an extra bullet in Hitler's chest just for you. You just—don't send me off looking like that, okay? I don't think I could take that."_

"If you don't, I'll do it alone," Bucky continued.

 _Don't be stupid._

"Don't be an idiot," Steve said immediately. "Look, I—I won't stop you, if this is that important. I'll go with you."

He silently apologized to Sam, who was probably going to lecture him later.

Bucky glanced back at Steve, and something softened in his eyes. "Thanks."

"Don't thank me yet."

They waited for over an hour—with Bucky keeping watch the entire time and Steve wondered how the hell he managed to stay so still for so long he didn't even register in Steve's peripheral vision after two minutes _what the hell_ —until a van pulled into the parking lot.

"Unmarked," Bucky muttered. "No plates. Four people went into the warehouse, the driver stayed inside."

"What are they doing?"

"Probably checking to see how their prisoner got away."

Steve itched to look over Bucky's shoulder, but any movement on his part could be noticed through the window. So Steve contented himself with trying to look through the wall.

It didn't work.

"They're coming back out," Bucky reported. "Some of them are gesturing—I can't read their lips from here. Looks like three are male and one female. They're getting back in the car."

"Time to go, then," Steve said, getting to his feet. "I'm driving."

"Fine."

* * *

 **Translations:**

Блядь, это пиздец - Fuck, this is fucked up.

 _ **Please review.**_


	21. Chapter 21

_No more daily updates after this one because writing is hard.  
_

* * *

 **Chapter 20**

They trailed the van to an old, abandoned factory on the edge of town. No lights were visible from inside, but Bucky could guess that they'd put blackout curtains over the windows.

"Rather foreboding," Steve noted. Bucky didn't care about the air of the place; he checked his weapons one last time, making sure that everything was in working order and that nothing had vanished when he wasn't looking.

They'd left Jordan to freeze to death. Freeze. To death.

 _Cold seeping into his skin his muscles his bones his mind—_

An innocent punk (innocent of HYDRA, at least) didn't deserve that.

 _Glass frosting over in front of his eyes, reaching for the reflection he can barely see it's so cold and dark—_

"Buck?"

 _32557038_ _._

"I'm fine, Steve." The factory was large, but Bucky had no idea how many HYDRA personnel were inside. The van they had tailed had disappeared inside a garage.

After a few minutes spent planning, Bucky led the way behind the factory, searching for one of the maintenance entrances. Steve had deferred to him for reasons Bucky didn't really understand, and part of him found leading Steve around slightly awkward. Steve was always the one in front, Steve had the shield—

 _I have the arm._

The part shut up.

No guards. That made sense, if they were trying to keep up the idea that the factory was abandoned. It also made it far easier for Bucky to pick the lock on one of the doors and slip inside, Steve on his heels.

Steve eased the door shut behind them and Bucky waited a beat for his eyes to adjust before he continued walking, rifle in hand.

They heard the first guy coming before he heard them. When he rounded the corner Bucky grabbed him in a headlock and cut off his air supply. While the man struggled for air he wouldn't get, Steve grabbed the second of the two-man patrol team and put him in a headlock, forearm pressed to his windpipe. They then dragged the two unconscious men out of the way and Bucky lifted a security pass from the one he'd taken care of. He also grabbed the pistol. No doubt it was standard-issue in this facility, and it wouldn't hurt to have a weapon that had renewable ammunition.

Taking the lead again, Bucky crept through the hallways with Steve at his back and his rifle in hand. They encountered two more patrols in the narrow corridors, and dealt with both accordingly.

After a little more searching, Bucky located a ladder leading into the higher levels. Ascending quickly, Bucky ducked out of sight right as a soldier passed by. While the man had his back turned, Bucky silently rolled onto the floor and got to his feet. While Steve followed, Bucky slammed the butt of his rifle into the man's temple. He went down like a sack of potatoes and Bucky quietly lowered him to the ground.

They jogged over to what appeared to be a computer terminal with silent steps. Bucky booted it up while Steve stood guard.

The startup sequence took long enough for Bucky to almost start fidgeting, but when he began paging through the information, he frowned.

"Steve," he said under his breath, "this is just regular factory information. No sign of HYDRA files."

"The guys we knocked out are definitely HYDRA."

"Right. Which means they weren't here for very long." Bucky frowned, shutting down the computer when it became clear that it had nothing useful to offer. There was only one explanation for why a new HYDRA froce would suddenly move into a new location. "They're here for me."

Steve was already giving him that look, but he didn't say Bucky was wrong.

 _You know I'm right._

Bucky had to find the leader and figure out why and how they were tracking him. Then Steve could call whatever institution was cleaning up his messes now. He said it was friendly remnants of SHIELD and other agencies, but Bucky had his doubts.

HYDRA didn't appear to be using the factory as anything but an excessively large hideout. Traversing the walkways suspended over the defunct factory floor, Bucky staggered from a sudden bout of vertigo.

 _Fire and smoke making his eyes water with everything shaking and dark and a headache that had his brain splitting his skull or his skull splitting his brain but Steve was there and he was telling him to leave like hell Rogers I'm not—_

 _"Just go, I'll—"_

 _"No! Not without you!"_

Steve caught him before he hit the railing. Bucky blinked the afterimages out of his eyes and brushed off Steve's worries.

 _32557038_ _._

 _I'm fine._

Three guardsmen were talking on a lower walkway. Bucky and Steve got as close as they dared and eavesdropped while keeping an eye out for anyone that could spot them and raise the alarm.

"Why the hell are we even up here?" One guard groused. "Jim's better with heights than all of us. He should be here, not me."

"Stop complaining. We'll be moving out soon, anyway."

"Oh, sure. General Klavik said that last week."

"They just needed more information. Relax."

"More information my ass. How hard would it be to just go in and take the damned guy back? He's just a fucking robot. Wouldn't have to stand here like a buncha dumbasses that way."

Bucky kept his breathing controlled. The plates in his arm softly clicked into place. Steve stayed close, probably wondering whether he should say something.

 _I'm fine._

"You know it's not that easy. Bastard's holing up with Captain America."

"So? Fill anyone with enough lead and they'll go down."

Bucky had his rifle aimed at the man's head. He didn't remember lifting the weapon.

"You're both being stupid."

"Shut up. I'm being logical."

In the span of two seconds, all three guards received bullets to their brains. Bucky could feel Steve's gaze on him as he dropped to the lower catwalk, but he ignored it. After grabbing the radio from one of the guards, Bucky debated the merits of dropping their bodies onto the factory floor. It would be a pointless action. They were already dead, and doing so risked discovery.

"Leave them, Bucky," Steve said as he dropped down as well. Bucky nodded, standing straight.

"They mentioned General Klavik."

"You know him?"

"No. But he's likely the leader of this operation."

The radio in Bucky's hand crackled to life. _"Four unconscious patrols in the southern maintenance halls. We've got intruders."_

Bucky raised one eyebrow. It had certainly taken them a while to find the patrolmen.

He and Steve left the main area of the factory and captured the next person they came across. Yanking the woman into a back room, Bucky held a knife to her throat.

"Where is Klavik?"

Her face had gone white. "You're—"

"Klavik. Location. _Now_."

"S-section C," she stammered.

 _Liar._

Bucky pressed the knife a little harder against her throat, drawing a thin line of blood that quickly slipped down her neck and stained her shirt.

"I won't ask again."

She bared her teeth. "Hail HYDRA."

Frustration and rage iced over to form cold fury. He stared the woman down, bringing the knife up and holding the point in front of her eye. He brought it close enough that she tried to jerk away, but Bucky's other hand had a viselike grip and she barely moved.

"Where."

She looked past him, probably at Steve. Bucky brought the knife even closer and her gaze fixed back on him.

Fear. He could see it in her eyes.

 _Good._

He just had to make her more afraid of him than her superiors. Bucky adjusted his grip on the knife slightly and smiled. He could do that.

Two minutes and three knives later Bucky and Steve were heading to Section B, floor two, room 263. They were careful to take the least populated routes, consulting a map of the facility that Steve had pulled up on his phone. They couldn't avoid enemies entirely, however, and by the time they made it to where they had to be, Bucky was down to two magazines on his rifle and only one for the p220. He'd switched to using the HYDRA-issue weapon, looting ammunition from their enemies. A bullet had grazed his cheek and though the cut had already begun to close, Bucky could feel Steve looking his way even more frequently.

Bucky glanced around the corner and saw two guards standing outside the door. His pistol didn't have a silencer, but the rifle did. After signaling to Steve, Bucky stepped around the corner and dropped the guards with two clean shots. He and Steve advanced quickly, with Steve disabling the security camera before they got in range with a well-placed throw of his shield.

The door was old and a little rusted. It would be impossible to open it silently, but the schematics of the building showed that it was the only entrance and exit into the room.

Bucky switched to the pistol. Steve kicked the door down without needing to be asked and they ducked the first hail of gunfire. Bucky blocked two bullets with his arm, feeling a third narrowly miss his thigh. The pistol found the gunmen and Bucky eliminated them while registering that Steve was doing the same on the opposite end of the large room.

Flickering light made it hard to see—someone had shot out the light with a stray bullet, leaving nothing but computer screens. A man tried to jump Bucky but he ducked under him, unsheathing a knife and opening up his stomach before he hit the ground. Flicking the blood off the blade, Bucky sheathed it and turned his attention to the only man left standing in the room. The man was staring, his eyes wide with not-quite-fear, and his hand reached for the gun holstered at his waist.

"I wouldn't do that," Steve warned softly. The man—he could only be General Klavik—glanced at Steve and scowled before raising his hands, palms up.

"And here I thought we'd be going to you," he snarled at Bucky. Bucky stared at him. The man stared at the pistol in Bucky's hand.

"Why were you pursuing me?" Bucky asked.

"You're our soldier. Our assassin. Our Asset. You think you can just run away? No, we're here to bring you back. Special orders."

"From whom?" Steve sounded tense. Klavik grinned.

"Wouldn't you like to know, _Captain_."

This man wasn't like that woman from earlier. Bucky could see it in his eyes; there was no fear there. He wouldn't break easily, if at all.

"Why did you kidnap the boy?" Bucky asked. Klavik glanced at him, something akin to surprise in his eyes that vanished quickly.

"How far you have regressed…it will take some time to make you fully functional again."

Bucky's grip on the gun tightened. "I don't do that anymore."

"You will."

"Answer the question."

"Hail HYDRA."

Bucky switched his aim to the man's leg and his finger tightened on the trigger—

"Sputnik."

 ** _OBEY._**

 _Current mission priority set 0. Awaiting new orders._

The Soldier lowered the gun and removed its finger from the trigger.

"Bucky?"

That was not the Handler. The Handler was looking at the Soldier. The Soldier listened for orders.

"Kill Captain America."

 _New orders accepted. Adjusting mission parameters._

The Soldier turned to face the target, pistol raised. Three shots, all deflected. Long- and medium-range combat ineffective. Close-quarters combat required.

"Bucky, stop! Bucky!"

Target distracted. Shield out of position; left side exposed.

"Bucky!"

Target not fighting back. Greater speed and power needed to circumvent defense. Gun unholstered, shot fired at target's—

 _NO._

Shot missed. Bullet deflected, gun knocked away. Target not pressing advantage. Priority switching to knives—

 _STOP._

Target skilled in close combat. Target's strength exceeded that of the Soldier. Advantages: metal arm, superior arsenal. Target only on the defensive.

The Soldier landed a punch with its left arm and Steve staggered back—

 _Steve._

 _ELIMINATE THE TARGET._

Another two shots. Two misses.

What.

The Soldier lunged forward and tackled the target, tossing its — _his that's Steve_ — shield away with the metal arm. Four solid blows connected before the target slipped away. The Soldier had sustained damage on his chest from the target's foot when it got away.

The pain was negligible.

 _ELIMINATE THE TARGET._

The target had recovered its shield. The Soldier pressed the advantage of the fight's momentum, pushing the target back against a wall.

"Bucky, please! I know you're in there."

Hesitation—

 _ELIMINATE THE TARGET._

The knife buried itself in the wall a fraction of an inch from the target. The Soldier felt a flare of—something. In his stomach. Unpleasant; he wrenched the knife out of the wall and engaged in combat once more.

 _STOP._

Target fleeing out of range. Medium-range weapon required.

 _PLEASE._

The target—

 _Steve—_

 _ELIMINATE THE TARGET—_

Blocked a shot with his shield and then threw the shield. It hit the second pistol out of the Soldier's hand. Proximity needed.

The Soldier got closer, pushing the target back again. It kicked out the target's knee when the target's defense lapsed and the target fell. The Soldier pulled out a knife—

 _LISTEN._

The target was staring, its — _his_ — blue eyes wide open and split lip sluggishly leaking blood. He wasn't moving.

"Bucky."

The…feeling. In its stomach—overwhelming. Nausea, momentary vision impairment—

 _UNTIL THE END OF THE LINE._

Pain beyond the mission failure exploded behind the Soldier's eyes. The Soldier's brain was fragmenting into thousands of pieces that cut and sliced away at the mission as they scattered and it couldn't focus, couldn't see past those blue eyes the word and the name parading on the edge of its consciousness—

 _ELIMINATE THE TARGET._

Images, so fast and bright they left stabbing pains that drove hot nails through the Soldier's skull and it suddenly knew through the pain—

 _Steve. Not the target._ Steve _._

The knife fell from numb fingers.

 _ELIMINATE THE TARGET._

The Soldier backed away, its—

 _His. Bucky. You're Bucky—_

Hands on his head, brain splitting because—

 _ELIMINATE THE TARGET._

He was yelling something. Numbers. He shouted them over the screaming in his head, over the yelling and noise from the outside world—

 _32557038._

He was on the ground. It was suddenly very quiet.

 _32557038._

Respiration elevated, heart rate elevated.

 _Eliminate the target._

"He's dead, Buck. I ki — Klavik is dead."

 _The Handler is dead._

Respiration elevated. Heart rate elevated.

 _Breathe._

The— _Steve_ was coming closer.

Breathe. Fucking _breathe_.

 _Eliminate the target._

 _Shut up._

"Stay back," the S— _Bucky_ growled, knowing that he was going to attack if Steve got too close the same way he knew his world was spinning the wrong direction. His metal hand flexed and the motors whirred.

 _Eliminate the target._

He bit his lip hard, using the burst of pain to focus. "Don't—just don't come any closer."

Steve listened. For far too long, the only things Bucky could hear were his own breathing and the deafening silence.

 _Eliminate the target._

 _32557038._

He got his heartbeat and breathing under control but he didn't know how long it took. His metal arm was still ready for combat and Bucky could feel his body vibrating with tension so he slowly rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, forcing himself to remain in the open and vulnerable position because _goddammit Steve is right there._

 _32557038\. 32557038. 32557038._

 _Eliminate the target._

 _Shut up._

 _Please, just shut up._

"Buck?"

The name grounded him almost as much as the numbers. Steve's voice reminded him that he wasn't the Soldier, he was Bucky, and fucking hell he'd attacked Steve again.

Cold. He was cold.

"We have to get out of here," Steve continued. Bucky flicked his gaze over to the other man and hid the wince he felt when the voice in the back of his head hit an entirely new pitch.

 _Eliminate the target._

 _32557038._

"Yeah."

 _Get up._

One step at a time. Don't look at Steve. Focus on the mission—focus on getting out. The mission is getting out. Focus on your breathing, your mind—

 _Eliminate the target._

 _32557038._

Bucky substituted the target with the patrols they came across. Killing them on the way out was far easier than on the way in, even though the alarm was raised. By the time he walked out of the factory, he was out of bullets for his rifle and down a knife. He was splattered with blood, almost none of it his own.

Steve was a few paces behind him. He had crimson staining his uniform as well, but not as much.

"Are you okay?" He asked.

Damage minimal. Functionality unimpaired. Bucky said as much. Steve didn't respond.

 _Eliminate the target._

The voice was quieter now, but still there. And Bucky couldn't say no. He ignored it or told it to shut up instead.

(Was fighting Steve the punishment?)

"We're going back to the house," Steve was saying. Bucky made an effort to focus on his words. "I'll call Sam, and we can—we'll figure this out. Okay?"

Steve sounded strained. His voice had cracked.

 _Elimi—_

 _Shut up._

Breathe.

"Yeah, okay."

Why did he feel so unsteady?

 _Breathe_.

* * *

 _ **Please review.**_


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 21**

Steve wanted to pace. His body practically vibrated with tension even though he was exhausted from both mental and physical strain. But Bucky was on the couch across from him, just sitting there and staring at his hands without moving, so Steve forced himself to sit still.

(He couldn't stop his leg from bouncing.)

Steve's phone vibrated and he fumbled it up to his ear. "Hello?"

 _"Hey, Rogers, it's me."_

Relief filled Steve. "Sam. Where are you?"

 _"I'm driving over."_

That was a surprise. He wasn't supposed to be back for another day or two. "Why—how? I thought you were still in D.C."

 _"I packed up and left the moment you called about the HYDRA situation. I knew you weren't going to wait."_

"Sorry."

 _"Yeah, yeah. How's Barnes? Your text didn't sound too great."_

"He's…calm. Sitting on the couch in the living room and not talking. He told me not to get too close."

Sam was quiet for a moment. _"You might be one of his triggers right now. I need you to explain to me in detail exactly what happened in that factory, okay?"_

Steve did. Bucky remained still the entire time except for a minute tightening of his shoulders when Steve mentioned Klavik.

 _"Shit,"_ Sam muttered. _"Okay, this…the closest thing I can call it is a relapse. A really fucking bad relapse."_

"Sam, I'm sorry."

 _"You didn't know, Steve. But the code—you said it wasn't the one we'd originally used."_

"Yeah, it was—" he glanced at Bucky, "er, the Russian satellite. And Bucky just froze in the middle of shooting the guy."

 _"Okay. I'm almost there. Wait for me."_

Steve hung up and refocused on Bucky. "Sam's almost here."

Bucky didn't say anything.

Steve bounced his leg.

When Sam arrived, Steve almost felt relieved; the tension in the room had been building to suffocating levels. The therapist took one look at Bucky and yanked Steve into his room, kicking the door shut.

"What was the word?"

"Sputnik." It sounded dirty on Steve's tongue. He kept replaying that moment in his mind; Bucky, his gun raised to shoot the general in the thigh, freezing and having all expression leave him. Over and over again he saw the light die in Bucky's eyes.

Sam asked Steve several more questions, but there were only so many ways to relay the same information.

"Is he…is he gonna be okay?" Steve asked. Sam gave him a long look and Steve braced himself because _this is my fault—_

"I don't know. But, before you start beating yourself up all over again—don't give me that look, I've seen you do this for twelve months straight after D.C.—remember that he's already done this once before. If he wants to improve, he will. We're here to help."

"But…" Steve faltered, searching for the words. "If he thinks—if he thinks, 'even after everything'—"

"As much as it pains me to say this, you need to trust the guy. Be smart. I've said it before: recovery isn't a straight line. We'll help him as much as he asks."

Steve hadn't been expecting much else. Still, the weight of what had happened slammed onto his shoulders and he sat down heavily on the edge of the bed. "Oh my god, Sam."

"Take it easy, big guy," Sam said. "Deep breaths."

"He's—"

"Five. Count them out."

Steve inhaled and exhaled five times under Sam's watchful eye, feeling the wave of panic and worry slowly recede. But he still couldn't stop bouncing his leg.

"Okay, Steve, listen to me."

Steve nodded, and Sam continued in an incredibly matter-of-fact tone.

"We're going to go back in there. You're going to stay calm, because Bucky will probably take his cues from you; you're the one that's been by his side the most, and if you're agitated, he'll be agitated. I'll ask questions, and whatever happens, follow my lead. Can you do that?"

"Yeah." Steve felt a surge of gratitude. "Thank you, Sam."

"Don't thank me until the cyborg on your couch recognizes that he shouldn't punt people off a flying aircraft carrier."

Sam led the way back into the room and Steve sat back down on the couch. He focused on his breathing like Sam had suggested and managed to stop bouncing his leg quite as quickly, though he wasn't able to stop it entirely. Bucky still hadn't moved.

"Do you know who I am?" Sam started, his voice cool yet warm. Bucky didn't even look up at him.

"Sam Wilson, former Air Force, aged thirty-seven. Pilots EXO-7 Falcon wings."

"And the other man?" Sam prompted, showing no reaction to having his information listed off in such a cold tone. There was a long six second stretch before Bucky answered.

"Steven Rogers, alias Captain America, former US Army. Super-soldier and—" Bucky audibly cut himself off. Sam didn't push, even though Steve wanted to know what Bucky had been about to say. Sam nodded.

"Right. And you are?"

Another pause. "James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky."

"Where are you right now?"

"Northern Wisconsin. The house." Bucky looked up, his hair framing his face in a messy curtain while he gave Sam a flat stare. "I know who I am."

Sam nodded with an air of silent apology. "Can you tell me what happened?"

Bucky's gaze flicked to Steve for a fraction of a second and Steve fought to keep his expression perfectly neutral even though that flat glance had twisted something horribly in his chest. Something inside began to bleed.

Bucky relayed the events in a perfectly matter-of-fact tone. Steve kept his mouth shut and tried to pretend as though the room wasn't pressing down around him. He found that he was looking at Sam instead of Bucky, watching as the man took Bucky's explanation with an expression that gave absolutely nothing away and it occurred to Steve that Sam had serious experience with broken people and he wondered if it ever got easier—

"You had to obey?" Sam queried.

"Yes. The command. I had to."

"But you stopped."

Steve forced himself to look at Bucky's face. It was blank, but he made eye contact with Steve for a moment before turning back to Sam and responding.

"I did. I—" his expression twisted and Bucky stopped speaking. Sam waited in silence. "The word. He—" Another pause. "I don't—"

"Take your time."

It took Bucky almost a minute, and when he spoke, his tone was nearly robotic. "He should not have known that word. He was not authorized."

"Who is authorized?"

Bucky stared at Sam. "I don't know."

That was a dead end. Steve knit his fingers together and listened as patiently as he could while Sam asked questions, always giving Bucky time to respond and never pressing too hard lest Bucky shut down.

Bucky shut down anyway, but Sam coaxed him back as best he could. Bucky's expression looked so empty, so much like it had been on the helicarrier and so far from how it had been just the previous day. Steve realized he was bouncing his leg again and quickly stilled the limb, but he couldn't drag his mind away from the knowledge that, no matter how comfortable Bucky became, he would always have the Winter Soldier buried within him.

One word. One word and Bucky had been emptied out and refilled with the Winter Soldier, the persona that Steve should have been able to prevent on that train but hadn't—

Steve wanted to apologize. He really, really wanted to apologize, to look Bucky in the eyes and say _I'm sorry_ because this problem stemmed from the mistake almost seventy years prior but no amount of apologizing or help could ever make up for watching his best friend plummet into an icy river and then _leaving him there_. He hadn't even looked for the body, too caught up in the fight and the despair of losing his friend (his best friend, his only friend, his practical other half) to drag himself back to that awful place.

He could still remember Bucky's expression.

He'd been terrified, his eyes wide with panic and his mouth opened in a cry of shock and maybe he'd been saying Steve's name but the roar of the wind had drowned it out before Bucky was even out of Steve's sight—

(What was it like to feel your lifeline bend and break in your hands? To feel the pull of gravity and think you were going to die when you had been so close to living? To know that your friend had failed to reach you when it mattered most?)

He'd survived. Bucky had survived, and Steve had left him alone in the cold, carried on the mission and just days later had crashed a plane into the ice believing that Bucky was dead and that he had nothing left to live for, and not even the one woman who could possibly understand his pain had been able to drag him back.

Had he meant to die in that crash? Had he been hoping that, on some level, he'd be able to see Bucky again? That he'd be able to leave the war and all its pain behind?

He knew the answer. But admitting it was beyond him.

 _I'm sorry._

Steve abruptly stood up. The room was suffocating him and his thoughts were wrapping barbed wire around his mind. He couldn't—he had to leave. He needed air. Needed to move, to get out. Now.

He knew Sam had glanced his way and Bucky's attention had snapped to him, seeing the sudden movement as a threat more than anything else. The pain in Steve's chest changed to a hollow ache and he swallowed down the guilt that threatened to drag him under.

 _I'm sorry._

He fled the room.

* * *

 _ **Please review.**_


	23. Chapter 23

_Getting checked from behind into the boards in the first two minutes of a hockey game really hurts. 0/10 would not recommend. And I'm now concussed, so yay._

* * *

 **Chapter 22**

Steve didn't return for over an hour. Sam stopped speaking at Bucky during that time, and Bucky let his attention drift down to his hands. Normally, at this time of day he would be reading in this room with Steve either reading or drawing on the opposite couch. But he knew he wouldn't be able to focus on the words now.

His thoughts kept looping through the mission. He could remember the fury and the frustration that had raged through him upon seeing Jordan. He could remember that anger crystallizing into something colder that fueled him through the factory. After that, things fell out of—into?—place. He felt clearheaded, but neither Sam nor Steve would be behaving like this if he was acting as he had been.

 _Eliminate the—_

 _Shut up._

He glanced around the room, checking the exits and verifying that Sam hadn't moved from his position on the other couch, phone in hand. His mind wanted to move but he kept his body perfectly still. Steve had been a bundle of motion and Bucky knew that motion would attract Sam's notice, and he didn't want more questions.

The answers were the same no matter how many times they were asked for.

He checked the exits again. Went still. Stayed that way until Steve walked back in, looking only slightly less pale than he had been.

Sam sighed and set his phone down. "Steve—"

"I'll be all right, Sam. I just had to take a walk. I'm fine now."

Bucky could tell by body language that Sam wasn't convinced at all, but he knew that with him there, Sam wouldn't push the issue with Steve.

He felt a pang of guilt over that but didn't understand why.

Bucky was trained to notice details. It came with the Red Room and experience in the field, but he wouldn't need any special training to see the weight on Steve's shoulders. The man, despite the serum that had given him superhuman strength, was bowing under the strain of something Bucky couldn't see.

Staying in the room was making things worse. The voice was whispering the command over and over again with Steve in the room, and Bucky couldn't make it shut up. It had been quieter when Steve wasn't around.

"I'm going," Bucky said. He knew they would only get more upset if he left without saying anything. The handlers had always wanted updates on his location too.

 _They're not handlers. They're Sam and Steve._

"Okay," Sam said while shooting Steve a warning look. Bucky felt Steve's gaze on his back until he closed the door to his room. Even then, the pain in Steve's eyes burned through the walls. It stirred the discomfort in Bucky's stomach and with that came a surge of sudden nausea. He went to the bathroom and got ready to heave, but the feeling passed and he just sat next to the toilet, drained for reasons he didn't understand.

He hadn't turned the lights on. The room was dark and quiet; despite his enhanced hearing, Bucky could only barely hear the murmur of conversation between Sam and Steve, and making out the words was impossible.

Goose bumps covered his skin. Bucky bit back a frown and slowly climbed to his feet after however many minutes of sitting still. The sounds of conversation had died and the silence had come back, oppressive but not suffocating. Bucky padded into his room on silent feet—he didn't remember taking off his boots but knew he had—and paused.

His eyes automatically went to the picture placed on the desk. It had been there since the day Steve had given it to Bucky, a place of painful prominence. Bucky stared at the sketched image of himself reading and then reached out, carefully folding the picture with perfect creases.

He walked over to the closet and slid it open, revealing his backpack. It had shown up in his room one day, scorched and most of its contents heavily burned, and Bucky suspected that either Natasha or Sam had gone back through the wreckage of the car and grabbed it from the trunk. At least the bag had been somewhat shielded from the blast and subsequent blaze.

Small mercies.

Rifling through the pockets, Bucky soon pulled out his notebook. After flipping through the worn pages, he found the latest page and tucked the drawing into the spine. He then closed the notebook and put it back in the backpack.

He sat on the bed again, but now staring wasn't as distracting as it had been and Bucky didn't like where his mind was going. He got up, began to pace. It was excess movement and a waste of energy but sleep was out of the question and Bucky had precious little else to do.

A few minutes passed that way and Bucky pulled the notebook out again, going through it page by page. His handwriting was a messy scrawl but the notes and ideas and memories described on the pages did ease his mind. He set the notebook back where it belonged and tried to sleep again.

 _Eliminate the target._

"Goddamn it."

He got up. Paced. Sat still. Laid on his back and stared at the ceiling. Swept his room for bugs.

Found three.

Steve wouldn't put them there, and neither would Sam. That left outside interference or Natasha, and Bucky would have noticed an intruder. The bugs were high quality, stuck in places that had been clean the last time Bucky had looked through them.

(That had been a long time ago. Why had he stopped?)

He crushed them one by one between his metal fingers, trying to draw the process out as long as possible to alleviate some of his boredom. Because that was what this restless feeling had to be: boredom.

The Soldier never got bored. Bucky did.

He needed something to do. A mission—an objective.

 _Read._

He could read. But that meant going into the house proper. Was Steve awake? He wouldn't be able to stay around Steve. Every time he looked at Steve's face he thought—

 _Eliminate the target._

—about the factory and how everything had just gone straight to hell because of the word. So, no Steve. Stealth.

Bucky eased his door open and crept down the hall, trusting that his hearing would warn him if anyone else was awake. Sam was crashing on the couch, which made Bucky guess that Natasha was supposed to be returning soon. The man's light snoring easily covered up whatever noises Bucky made as he walked over to the couch.

For a long while, he stared at the book that was still shoved between the cushions. It hadn't been moved recently, and the pull of it was approaching magnetic. But Bucky turned away from that and grabbed the book he had been reading instead, alongside one random one about the War of 1812. He wasn't alive then; he didn't have to worry about reading about one of his targets.

He'd been avoiding anything that covered events during or after World War II. He had no concrete reason to do so, but he did it anyway.

Sam, stirred by some sixth sense, turned and muttered something in his sleep. Bucky remained still, keeping his breathing low and regular. Humans responded to another human's breathing patterns unconsciously, perhaps from old herd instincts. Either way, Bucky had to wait several seconds for Sam to settle before he could make his way back to his room.

He finished the first book and got well into the second by the time the sunlight broke through the clouds hanging on the horizon.

An hour after sunrise, he heard Steve moving around.

 _Elimina—_

 _Shut up._

No doubt making breakfast, Steve barely stuck around for twenty minutes before going on his run with Sam. Bucky snuck out into the kitchen while the house was empty, fixing himself a quick snack with some toast and fruit. Natasha arrived halfway through his process of adding jam to the toast. Either that, or it took Bucky that long to notice her quiet presence observing him from the other end of the counter. She was standing just out of his immediate reach.

Smart. That didn't mean Bucky was going to put down the ceramic knife.

(Steve thought putting locks on the armory would stop Bucky from replenishing his supply. Steve was wrong.)

"Barnes," Natasha greeted plainly. Bucky watched her out of the corner of his eye, unwilling to completely abandon his breakfast. "Steve wants to move you to New York."

He could appreciate her blunt attitude. But. "Why."

She tilted her head ever so slightly, her posture relaxed. Bucky wasn't fooled; he could see the faint outlines of at least three blades on her person. "Security, for one. HYDRA will have a far harder time touching you if you're there."

Incorrect. HYDRA would find him no matter where he went.

 _Eli—_

 _Shut up._

"Besides, Steve believes it would be a better and more stable location for your recovery."

"He wants me to get my memories back."

"Is he wrong to want that?"

Bucky resumed putting jam on his toast, slipping his ceramic knife out of sight where it would still be within reach. Natasha wasn't presenting herself as a threat so Bucky could at least do that much.

What exactly did Steve want? He acted as though he wanted his Bucky back, the old Bucky, the pre-war Bucky that laughed and joked and snarked. But when Bucky had tried that, it had only caused Steve pain. And if Bucky truly reverted, he'd be denying those seventy years. Those experiences as the Winter Soldier defined him as he was now.

He couldn't go back to that Bucky. He wouldn't; the guilt would crush him.

(It still sat within him like an unhappy ocean and most nights Bucky was at the mercy of its unwelcome tide.)

But he could try. There was no going back but Bucky could move forward.

 _You went forward and HYDRA dragged you back._

Bucky took a bite of his toast. It crunched between his teeth and his mouth filled with the taste of strawberries.

 _I'll try again._

Steve would want him to keep trying. Giving up would be giving into HYDRA. He couldn't—wouldn't—do that again. Even if they dragged him back he'd—

 _Eliminate the—_

—rather die than go back to the chair, to the wipes and the punishments and the targets. Bucky didn't want to do that. The Soldier didn't either; the instinct to stay away sat like a stone in his gut. There was some comfort to be found in the fact that both (all three?) parts of him agreed on something: no more HYDRA.

 _Never again._

"No," Bucky finally said after swallowing. "But it's not realistic."

He saw Natasha's lips lift into a slight smile. "Steve tends to be that way."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because Steve will bring it up eventually and you might as well know in advance."

Bucky just stared at her. She clearly wasn't saying everything. After a few seconds, Natasha sighed.

"Steve is going to treat you like you're glass. He'll dance around the subject. I don't like it when he does that, and I'm almost sure you won't either. If you're still functional after what you've gone through, you aren't going to break from anything he can throw at you."

Some part of that struck Bucky as funny. But he nodded, keeping his amusement hidden. He knew that Steve didn't know how to treat him; that was obvious in his mannerisms and the stolen glances. It had only gotten worse because of the factory and would continue to be that way until Bucky finally got the voice to go away and told Steve that he didn't have to walk on eggshells anymore.

The mere thought of refusing the voice again made his stomach churn. He'd done it once on a whim, out of curiosity, but now it felt far stronger than it had then. His metal arm whirred softly, the plates clicking in and out of place.

"Thanks," he managed. Natasha quirked a brow.

"You're welcome."

When Steve got back, Bucky was in his room again, the door closed and his stomach full.

* * *

 _ **Please review.**_


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 23**

Steve did bring up moving to New York—three days later. Bucky spent that time cramming the voice and all it entailed into a back corner of his mind with the memories of the people he'd killed and every other awful thing he'd done. He still heard it and he could never avoid it when he was alone but it was better.

He was better.

 _Recovery isn't a straight line_ , Sam had said. Well, Bucky was going to enjoy this upswing while it lasted.

His improvement was probably part of the reason Steve finally worked up the nerve to approach him about the moving issue.

Sam and Natasha were out shopping at the time and snow fell in light flurries outside the windows. Bucky was nursing a hot chocolate (Sam had insisted he try it) while reading the book about the war of 1812. He glanced up when Steve walked over. The guy had an air of nervousness about him, which was very much at odds with how he usually acted.

"Hey, Buck," he said, sitting on the opposite couch. Bucky raised one eyebrow, putting his finger in his book to mark his page while turning his attention to Steve in a silent request for him to continue talking. "Listen…I've been thinking. Er, Sam and Nat, too. But I—we—think we should move. If we stay here any longer, HYDRA will come again and the people that live here will be in even more danger."

 _Get to the point, Rogers._

"So…we were thinking New York. If that's okay with you. I mean, Tony Stark—we knew his dad, Howard—has a tower there. It's secure. But there's also Brooklyn, and we could visit places around the city. It'll be a great place."

Bucky listened with half an ear as Steve listed off more benefits of going to Stark's. He knew that Steve was trying to convince himself as much as Bucky, knew that what Steve really wanted to do was go back to Brooklyn and stay there. But Brooklyn wasn't safe and Bucky doubted that the new location would do more to jog his memory. Stark's tower had far more advantages, and visiting Brooklyn from there wouldn't be impossible.

Steve eventually ran out of steam, looking at Bucky with wide, hopeful eyes. He wasn't going to force anything, Bucky could see that clearly. He wanted this to be Bucky's decision.

But.

Tony Stark. _Stark_. Bucky knew that last name beyond the basic familiarity of a person he used to know. Stark—someone by that surname—had been a target. Bucky could make the connection easily enough. Steve didn't know about that particular assassination, but he would have to for this move. It was an issue that could lead to problems in the future if left unaddressed; Bucky could already feel the tendrils of something approaching guilt in his gut at the idea of living in the house of the man whose parents he'd secretly killed. It wouldn't bother him too much at first, but…

 _You can't do that. Steve needs to know._

Because it would hurt Steve to keep this secret. Steve was friends with Tony Stark judging by his tone and words, and Bucky was friends with Steve. Steve had to know, even though the thought of talking about a mission with Steve made Bucky's head pound.

"Steve."

The hopeful look on Steve's face flickered. "Yeah?"

"Is Tony Stark an orphan?" He had to clarify. He had to be sure that this conversation was unavoidable.

"Er—yeah. Why?"

Bucky opened his mouth to say the words— _I killed his parents_ —but they wouldn't come. He couldn't say them; something in his head railed against the thought. Bucky clenched his jaw and forced himself to speak, feeling ice wash over him in waves with each word.

"I killed his parents."

Steve looked taken aback, but he rallied quickly. "You—you're sure?"

"Yes."

Steve worked his jaw for a moment and then, after several more seconds, he set his shoulders. "We'll talk to him. We'll explain everything. Tony's…well, he'll listen to me. To us. He knows what it's like to get a second chance."

Bucky regarded him, the calm clarity bringing him the knowledge that Steve was an idiot. Bucky had killed Anthony Stark's parents. He had looked Howard Stark in the eyes and beat him to death while Howard pleaded for his wife to be spared. He could feel the memory of his fist meeting the man's face as clearly as he felt his shirt rubbing against his skin.

Howard was one of so many. There were hundreds of names and faces in Bucky's mind that would never fade. Stories ended and lives lost by Bucky's hand. He wondered distantly whether the old Bucky would have been able to keep going. He wondered if the Soldier was keeping him sane. He wondered if Steve understood how stupidly stubborn he was being.

"I killed his parents, Steve."

That should have been it. Steve was logical when it counted, Bucky knew that—he'd recalled a few missions with the commandos when Steve had made the hard choice in order to win. He knew how to sacrifice; Bucky's safety wasn't worth that much.

But. Steve was staring at him with The Look. The one Bucky saw in his mind's eye on a much smaller Rogers, one that grabbed him by the wrist and yanked him out of the alley _because you were the one that needed help this time, Bucky._

And Bucky knew what was coming before Steve even opened his mouth because familiarity welled in his bones.

"The Winter Soldier killed Tony's parents. You're not him."

Bucky frowned. The metal arm would say otherwise. "I killed them. I can remember doing it."

That, in and of itself, was strange. He wasn't supposed to remember and never had before. But he'd been out of cryo—without a reset—for over a year, longer than any of his other assignments. During that time, the names and faces had come. Slowly at first, and then in a flood that would have sent him spiraling into insanity had his training not kicked in and parted the waters. But he knew every target, every name. There wasn't an inch on his body that was free of blood.

He'd broken necks and arms and ribs, shot hearts and brains and knees, slit throats and wrists and hamstrings, shattered bones and lives and minds.

Did he feel guilt? Certainly. He woke up screaming more times than not when he slept at all. But the guilt was always so far away when he was awake, an echo of the man he had been trying to force him back into his own humanity.

He didn't know if he was supposed to embrace that guilt. He wasn't sure if he could. He definitely couldn't look Stark in the eyes and apologize sincerely, because the words would be empty. He didn't feel sorry for killing Howard beyond the morals that had been creeping back into his head. The man that had killed Howard Stark—the Soldier—didn't feel sorry at all, because Howard was the Mission and the Mission got carried out.

That was the crux of it. He was supposed to separate the Winter Soldier and all that personality entailed from himself. Steve encouraged that without ever explicitly saying it. But he _was_ the Winter Soldier. He'd _been_ the Asset for over seventy years. The title belonged to him as much as the name Bucky Barnes. He remembered being the Winter Soldier, thinking like the Winter Soldier, acting like the Winter Soldier. And he could do it again. The Asset was as much a mindset as Bucky Barnes, and he was stuck somewhere in the middle.

"It still wasn't your choice," Steve pressed. "You were brainwashed and forced to forget. The man that killed Tony's parents isn't the man standing in front of me."

Bucky stared at Steve. His words were clear and cold. "Yes, he is. _I_ did those things. _I_ killed those people."

Steve worked his jaw, clearly frustrated. He was still giving Bucky The Look, and if anything it seemed to be getting more intense with each word out of Bucky's mouth.

"I don't care, then," Steve finally said. "You're my friend, and so is Tony. We'll figure it out so you don't have to look over your shoulder all the time. Okay?"

"I can handle myself."

"I know that. But Bucky—I don't—I'm still worried." Bucky said nothing, sensing that Steve was working up his nerve. "Will you come to New York with me? Please?" Steve looked uncomfortable. Bucky knew he was trying to make it Bucky's choice, that he was trying to avoid forcing Bucky to do anything he didn't want to do.

 _Idiot_.

Bucky wasn't hedging because he didn't want to go to New York, which was probably what Steve was thinking. He wouldn't even care that much if Stark tried to kill him as revenge. The problem was that he couldn't let himself be hurt because that would hurt Steve. New York and Stark were two things that would definitely poke at Steve's obvious vulnerability.

But The Look was chipping away at Bucky's reluctance. He could see it every time he blinked. Steve had been using The Look since they were kids to get Bucky to cave, and maybe that memory of giving in was ingrained in his head because Bucky sighed, dropping the clear cold in his head and returning The Look with one of his own.

 _So goddamned stubborn._

"I'll go to New York with you." He felt compelled to add, "As long as you promise not to do anything stupid."

Steve looked ready to whoop, but he didn't. Instead, he pulled Bucky into a hug.

 _Eliminate the target._

Bucky stiffened on reflex and barely stopped himself from retaliating. Perhaps sensing Bucky's tension, Steve drew back with a hasty but sincere apology.

 _Elim_ —

 _Shut up._

Bucky swallowed and nodded while working to slow his heart rate and keep his metal arm completely still.

"Thank you, Buck," Steve whispered.

Later that night, when he had finished packing and couldn't sleep, Bucky wondered why the hell Rogers had thanked him.

 _Eliminate the target._

Bucky grit his teeth, the motors in his arm whirring as he clenched and unclenched his metal hand. "He's not the target," he growled. "Steve isn't a target." His head was pounding and the room was swimming in and out of focus. "Steve is my friend. He's not a target."

 _Eliminate the target._

"He's my friend."

 _Eliminate the—_

"He's my—"

 _—target._

"—friend, dammit. I can't—I won't do it. He's my friend." He repeated it again, and again, talking over the pulsing in his brain. "Steve is my friend. He's not a target."

 _Eliminate the target._

 _Shut up._

He was grinding his teeth and hadn't even noticed. The ceiling was pressing in and the walls were too close, the shadows too deep and the door too far—

 _Eliminate the—_

"NO!" Bucky finally shouted, unable to take the pain in his skull any longer. It wouldn't shut up and he couldn't ignore it and he couldn't sleep, couldn't even be in the same goddamned room as his friend because of this voice and for fuck's sake he'd nearly stabbed Steve for _hugging him_ —

Lights exploded behind his eyes and Bucky chomped down on his tongue to keep anymore noise from coming out as pain and nausea rocked his body. His muscles burned and his left arm ached in a way he hadn't felt in years—

 _32557038._

He could taste copper in his mouth.

 _32557038._

"My name…Is James Buchanan Barnes." His skull was splitting. "Steve is my friend." His metal arm ached where it connected to his body. "I…was born in 1917. In Brooklyn." Even digging his nails into his palm couldn't distract him from the pain in his head. "My name is Bucky. Steve's…my friend. Three two five five seven zero three eight."

Seconds bled into minutes that dragged on until Bucky realized he was on his back, staring up at the ceiling while he drew in shallow breaths.

The pain in his head was a shadow of what it had been.

He couldn't hear the voice.

"Steve isn't a target," he said to the quiet room. "He's my friend."

Nothing.

No pain. No punishment.

No Mission.

Bucky closed his eyes and let out a deep, shuddering breath that left his chest empty and hollow. But when he inhaled again, he felt lighter than he could remember.

 _Steve's my friend._

Images played out on Bucky's eyelids, lightning-quick flashes of smiles and snatches of conversation that were gone as soon as they came. But each one found a place it belonged, creating a patchwork quilt of a past Bucky had only just begun to understand was his.

* * *

 _ **Please review.**_


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter 24**

Bucky was uncomfortable. Steve could see that plainly; even though they were riding in one of Stark's personal airplanes, Bucky kept glancing around and his metal hand was holding the armrest hard enough to dent the plastic. There wasn't much Steve could do to comfort him; Bucky had made it clear he didn't want to talk. Whenever Steve had walked into the room after the factory disaster, Bucky had either gone quiet or left. And now his whole body radiated tension, so Steve figured that getting closer wouldn't do any good.

In all fairness, Steve was tense as well. The conversation with Bucky the previous day had left him rattled; Bucky had been so convinced that it was his fault. Steve knew that Bucky would carry the Winter Soldier's deeds with him for as long as he lived, but to hear Bucky admit it aloud and with so much conviction was painful.

And then there was the fact that they were now headed to New York. Tony had let Steve use one of his jets with no questions asked beyond a few quips, most of which were said so quickly or referenced something obscure enough that Steve didn't understand them. Tony had just made him promise to finally move into Avengers Tower (he hadn't phrased it that way, of course, but Steve got the message), which Steve had been ready to do.

As long as Bucky could as well, at least. Steve was sure that Tony would understand given time, but he had no idea how deep the wound of losing his parents went. Steve knew what it was like to lose his parents, but his father died when he was young and his mother had been sick for a long time. And he'd had Bucky.

Tony's parents had been murdered. Steve couldn't tell him he understood, because he didn't.

His gaze flicked over to Bucky for the umpteenth time. The conversation and its results would be up to Bucky, and maybe that was why Bucky was so tense.

The plane hit another spot of turbulence. Steve turned his attention to the window, trying to distract himself with the clouds. But, no matter where he looked, Steve couldn't drag his awareness away from Bucky.

* * *

"Captain Rogers, may I inquire as to why you have brought an additional guest with you today?"

Steve saw Bucky stiffen out of the corner of his eye. That was to be expected; even after being warned, Bucky would no doubt find the disembodied voice of JARVIS disconcerting. Steve still did, and he'd been in the Tower several times.

"He's someone Tony needs to speak with," Steve said. "He's not a threat."

"With all due respect, Captain, I detect four knives on his person."

Four? Steve glanced at Bucky, who was staring at the nearest wall with a slight frown. Seeing Steve looking his way, Bucky slowly pulled out four knives and set them in a tray that slid out from the elevator's wall near the door, which slid shut as soon as Bucky removed his hands.

"I have identified your guest as Sergeant James Barnes."

"Call me Bucky," Bucky said immediately. He didn't seem more anxious than he already had been despite losing his weapons, which made Steve suspect that he had more on his person that JARVIS couldn't detect with the scanners built into the elevator.

"My apologies, Sergeant. My programming requires formality. Does Mr. Barnes or Sergeant suit you?"

Bucky swallowed and glanced Steve's way. Steve kept his face blank, and Bucky slowly nodded, only to pause. "Yeah, that's…both of those are fine."

"Captain, would you like me to inform Sir of your guest, or are you making this a surprise?"

"Tell him I've brought a friend," Steve said as the doors opened with a soft ding.

Steve led the way through Stark's lab with JARVIS opening the doors when necessary. He could hear the distant sound of Tony's voice, bouncing off the metal counters and various tools and machines scattered about the place in a way that probably only made sense to their inventor. Steve sidestepped a hunk of molten metal and cleared his throat.

Tony glanced up, his voice dying in the middle of a conversation with himself.

"Ah, Capsicle. So good of you to visit. You know you have a floor here, right? Wouldn't hurt to stay long enough to check it out. Pepper had a say in the decoration, you'd love it. Who's the terminator? Your friend?"

"Tony," Steve greeted. "Good to see you."

"Right, right. Try to pretend like you visit more often than once every…JARVIS, when was the last time our frozen friend visited?"

"Over a year, Sir."

Tony nodded. "See? I'm hurt. This is _Avengers_ Tower. Not Tony Tower. Though, Stark Tower had a nice ring to it…"

Bucky stepped forward and Steve made room. "Tony, this is Bucky."

Tony paused for a second, the intensity of his gaze fixed entirely on Bucky for a second before his eyes went back to Steve, his expression difficult to read. Steve knew that he'd made the connections instantly.

"Cap."

"Tony."

Tony blinked and set down the tablet he'd been absently tapping. "Well, I'll be damned. You're serious? No, of course you are." He stepped closer to Bucky, his eyes narrowing. "You're remarkably spry for someone nearing 100. What's your secret? Calisthenics? An obscure fruit from the tropics?" His gaze flicked to Steve and then back. "Ice?"

Bucky twitched.

"Ah, knew it! You two are peas in a pod. Really, this is perfect." He abruptly switched his attention to Steve. "Well, I appreciate the introduction and I will certainly want a look at that wonderful metal arm of his in the very near future, but I am currently in the middle of something at the moment. Anything else?"

Steve pursed his lips, unsure of how to explain. Tony seemed to be in a good mood, which was the best Steve could have hoped for, but Steve didn't know how to broach the subject. Awkward silence began to fill the room but Tony raised one eyebrow before it could settle.

"There's clearly something. Spit it out, Cap. Any other friends of yours magically reappear? Do you need dating advice? Are you finally deciding to move in?"

"я прошу прощения," Bucky muttered. Tony stared at him, one eyebrow creeping up.

"Sorry, don't speak Russian. JARVIS?"

"Mr. Barnes is apologizing, Sir."

"Apologizing?" Tony looked almost shocked. "Why would you be doing that?"

Bucky worked his jaw, the plates in his arm clicking softly. Steve could see Tony's eyes occasionally darting to the limb, cataloguing how it behaved.

"I'm sorry," Bucky said, in English this time. He met Tony's gaze, his own expression unreadable. "For killing your parents."

Time stuttered to a stop for a split second and then charged forward, but Tony seemed to have been caught in the break. He glanced around the lab, confusion and a multitude of other emotions flickering across his face too quickly for Steve to read. Bucky remained still, even his metal arm frozen in place. Steve could barely hear him breathing.

"I must have misheard. What?" Tony asked. He seemed to be at a loss for words; either that, or his usual levity couldn't find a place in this situation.

"I killed your parents," Bucky said stiffly. "I—was the Winter Soldier. Howard and Maria Stark were targets."

Despite not having any serum in his veins to speak of, Tony Stark moved remarkably quickly. In an instant he had one hand raised in front of Bucky, a metal gauntlet covering it with the repulsor in the palm glowing with dangerous light.

"Rogers," Tony said very quietly, his gaze never leaving Bucky's face, "you brought the Winter Soldier into my tower?"

The tone in which Tony spoke made Steve ache. "He needs help."

"Oh, does he." Tony spoke flatly. "How convenient. What did he say to you, Cap? He's got his memories back? He's a changed man? He's suddenly on your side—"

"It's not like that," Bucky began quietly, only to go silent when the repulsor glowed brighter.

"You, stay quiet," Tony said. "Well?"

"Bucky's right," Steve said. "It's—it's a long story. But we came here as soon as we could. I only found out about your parents yesterday, Tony. And I couldn't keep this from you."

"Let me get this straight. You brought _him_ , the Winter—fucking—Soldier, into _my_ tower, using _my_ jet, as your _friend_ , knowing he killed my parents?"

Steve stayed quiet. There was nothing he could say, even though he itched to step in front of the weapon pointed at Bucky's face. Bucky himself was practically carved from stone, and his eyes hadn't left Tony the entire exchange. Steve could see his chest moving up and down, however, and could see the stiffness in Bucky's posture that hinted at just how much effort he was pouring into staying still. Steve thought about the weapons JARVIS hadn't found and Bucky's arm, a weapon unto itself.

The tension in the room could have been cut with a knife. Steve focused on Tony, who was staring at Bucky with incredible intensity. His hand shook.

Every second passed with a beat of Steve's heart. Energy thrummed through his muscles but he had to keep himself from moving, he couldn't interrupt this because this was between Tony and Bucky but Bucky was in danger—

"Sir, if I may—"

"Now is not the time, JARVIS."

"Black Widow has just sent me several scanned files that contain information pertinent to this situation."

"Not. The. Time."

Steve was surprised to hear the firmness in JARVIS' tone. "Sir."

Tony worked his jaw, his eyes burning holes into Bucky's head. Bucky still didn't move, and several weighted seconds passed before Tony scowled and dropped his hand. He looked between Bucky and Steve, expression cloudy. "Neither of you leave this room, got it?"

Steve nodded. Bucky merely watched Tony's retreating back as he left, presumably to look at the files Natasha had sent him without being in the same room as Bucky.

"Buck?" Steve asked after a minute. He got no response; Bucky still hadn't moved. "Hey, you alright?"

"No," Bucky said. He unclenched his metal hand and Steve wondered when he'd tightened it into a fist in the first place, whether it had been like that the entire time. He still didn't relax, however. "Too close. He was too close. I—"

He went quiet. Steve bit the inside of his cheek; Bucky had a habit of doing that, of cutting himself off as though he expected to be stopped. Steve doubted Bucky even realized he was doing it. There was nothing Steve could do but wait for him to find his voice again.

"I won't be able to stay still," Bucky said. "If he does that again. I can't." He looked at Steve with something desperate flickering in his eyes. "Steve."

"It'll be okay." Would it? Tony was even more upset than Steve had been anticipating, and without JARVIS' interference, Steve didn't want to think of what could have happened. At least Natasha had had the foresight to send the files just in case.

Bucky's unchanging expression indicated exactly what he thought of that. They waited in stifling silence. Steve's mental clocked ticked away the minutes.

When Tony came back in, Bucky had frozen again. His blue eyes stared straight ahead and didn't focus on Tony when he stopped a few feet away. The genius looked at Bucky for a long time with a gaze Steve couldn't interpret. It held hatred, frustration, anger—but also pain, and confusion.

Tony held a physical copy of the file. He dropped it on the nearest relatively empty surface. It landed with a slapping noise.

Steve waited.

"I won't apologize," Tony said tightly. "And let me make it clear that I don't like this."

"Then we'll g—"

"Shut up, Steve. I'm not finished."

Bucky still hadn't so much as twitched.

"You—" Tony looked straight at Bucky, who probably would have flinched if his body wasn't locked in place. "You have had a royally fucked-up life. I don't feel inclined to contribute to that more. And you," he continued, looking at Steve with a measured gaze that didn't match the way his hand was holding the edge of the countertop with a white-knuckled grip, "need to work on your introductions."

Steve swallowed, unsure of what to say. Tony sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face.

"This is what I get for not sleeping for three days. You two can stay here if you want, because I cannot think of any other reason why you would come here and not just call. Or are you still figuring out how phones work?"

"I had to tell you the truth in person."

"Yeah, sure. Am I wrong?"

Steve glanced at Bucky. He still hadn't moved. "We do need a place to stay, yes, and the Tower was the best option. But we didn't want to stay here under false pretenses."

"They're not false pretenses, you idiot," Stark said flatly. "It's an omission of important information, a practice that you, of all people, should not get into the habit of anytime soon. Save that for the spider."

Steve nodded. "Thank you, Tony."

"I don't have a place ready for Red October, but your floor has two spare bedrooms. He can stay there." Tony glanced at the file and then looked away as though it burned his eyes. "He's not allowed on the lab floors. If he so much as breathes in Pepper's' direction…"

"Understood," Steve said.

Tony transferred his gaze to the ceiling. "This isn't the end of this, Rogers."

"I know."

"Go."

"Okay."

* * *

 _ **Please review.**_


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter 25**

Bucky dreamed of ice. He dreamed of crystals forming in his blood, crystals that poured out like grains of sand when they cut him open and dragged out his pulsing heart.

 _"Defective,"_ they pronounced, and they threw the heart out.

Bucky dreamed of fire. He dreamed of flames licking at his skin, drops of heat that burned off the flesh he wore like a mask and revealed the metal underneath.

Bucky dreamed of darkness, and cold, and warmth. He dreamed of water pounding his skin in freezing jets and water streaming down his back in warm rivulets. He dreamed of steel clamps holding his arms down and soft sheets blocking out the chill in the air.

He dreamed of cars and highways and beating two men he should have known to death.

He dreamed of Steve.

He dreamed of falling.

 _"Defective,"_ they pronounced, and they brought a new heart in. This one beat with blood made of nails and veins of wire.

 _No._

His frozen lips refused to part.

 _Stop._

He stayed still as they set the ugly thing in his chest. It fit. Perfectly.

 _I don't want it._

They sewed him up with bloody sutures and he stood.

 _"How is it, Soldat?"_

He lifted his hands. He fastened them around their throats. He squeezed.

They clawed at his hands from beneath him, their faces bruising and broken.

 _"Bucky,"_ they gasped, their voices resolving into one as the world fell apart in showers of sparks and blood and his head was pounding, _"Bucky."_

He squeezed tighter.

And woke up screaming.

* * *

He didn't know what drove him to Steve's door beyond a primal need to make sure that Steve was there, that he was alive. And he was—spread out on his bed by virtue of his large frame, one arm clutching a pillow so tightly Bucky was surprised it didn't burst. His sheets were so twisted around his legs that Bucky wondered how Steve was going to get out of them in the morning.

Steve shifted and mumbled something under his breath before settling on his back. Bucky leaned against the doorframe as Steve began to snore at a volume befitting his serum-enhanced lungs.

Sensations echoed along Bucky's body at the familiar sound—a warm body pressed against him, uneven breath against his neck, cold air on his back, thin sheets barely blocking out the morning light—

He was smiling. He was in Steve's doorway in the middle of the night watching the big goof sleep and he was smiling.

Bucky didn't go back to sleep. He couldn't. But he spent his solitude with a book in the main room, using the moonlight to read. He nursed his hot chocolate—prepared with help from JARVIS, who had been surprisingly careful about introducing his presence to Bucky—and wedged himself a little deeper into the couch cushions.

His nerves were still frazzled from the previous day, and memories of the conflicting needs to get away to leave to attack to defend to run to fight to scream to stop when Stark had gotten so close kept him from exploring the rest of the building. The rest of the day had been a whirlwind, too, to the point that Bucky had nearly attacked someone and Steve had needed to pull him into a bathroom to calm him down while the movers finished organizing everything in Bucky's new room.

It took Bucky too long to calm down after that. He didn't eat dinner, and he and Steve went to bed early after Steve fumbled his way through an attempt to talk to Bucky.

Bucky had shut that down. He didn't want or need to talk. He was doing a shitty job, but he was handling this.

He had to handle this.

He would handle this.

Sam had tried too, but he hadn't been able to stay for long enough to press the issue after arriving late in the afternoon. Something about his family in the city—Bucky hadn't been paying attention, too focused on checking his room for any bugs.

JARVIS had already informed him several times about the security of the Tower. Even Natasha—in the brief phone call—had told Bucky the Tower was the safest place in the city. But Bucky had thought of at least two ways to circumvent the security measures long enough to enter the building without being detected immediately, though he doubted HYDRA would find them anytime soon.

He took another drink of hot chocolate.

Next time, he was going to try marshmallows.

Next time.

 **End**

* * *

 _At this point, I'm planning on rewriting Innocent as well (because_ oh dear god _)_. _I'll probably come up with a better title than "Innocent (Rewrite)" though, so keep an eye out for that._

 _Thank you for all the support! I loved reading all of your reviews!_

 _Until we meet again,_

 _-RoR_

 _ **Please review.**_


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